Page 165 of The Lies We Play

He looks up.

“I can make coffee.”

“You never make coffee.”

I do, but I choose to be petty and say, “Then today is a day of personal development.”

My stepmother gives me a look that says she is trying very hard to remain patient with my charming little rebellion.

I close the bedroom door before either of them can continue.

Then Everett says, quietly, “Halston?”

I walk away from the door.

My hands are cold.

I go to the desk, then stop myself. Do not take it out of the notebook. Not now.

If they come in somehow—if they have a key, if the lock is more decorative than functional—I need nothing visible.

My phone buzzes.

I look at it.

A calendar alert. Donor Breakfast, 9:00 a.m.

Beneath it, a message from Everett.

We need to discuss this morning. You are not yourself.

I stare at the last sentence.

You are not yourself.

For once, I hope he’s right.

I shower, then dress in a dark suit because my body has learned armor comes in wool. I leave the tie loose. That, too, feels like a rebellion, which is embarrassing enough that I nearly put one on out of spite toward myself.

When I step into the living room, a breakfast tray waits on the dining table. There’s no one around.

I hate that Everett or my stepmother sent breakfast even after I said no coffee. Also, it makes no sense to have food when I’m heading out for breakfast. There’s coffee, toast, and half a grapefruit. Also, a manila envelope is under the tray.

I pull it out, and there’s no courier mark. No postage, just my name typed on the front.

Halston W. Saint Claire.

My first thought is that Everett had something sent up. Probably pills to claim I’m using or . . . fuck.

My second thought is that my pulse has changed.

I look around the apartment, and there’s no one.

The doorman would have called if an outside messenger came upstairs.

I decide to open the envelope with a butter knife because my life has become absurd enough that I am weaponizing breakfast.

Inside is a single folded sheet of paper.