Page 226 of The Lies We Play

Of course he does.

His face does that small wrong thing it used to do when he noticed something and chose not to comment. A tiny restraint near his mouth. A pause in his eyes. A man locking an entire feeling behind perfect posture and a thousand dollars’ worth of self-control.

I have not seen that expression in ten years.

I have, apparently, kept the catalog.

Because I am normal and stable and absolutely not a walking museum of men who broke my life open.

Fitzhenry Everhart clears his throat. “Ms. Crane.”

“Mr. Everhart, pleasure to make your acquaintance,” I say, then immediately hear myself and want to crawl under the table.

Not professional. Just deeply weird.

Like I am greeting an ambassador in a hostage video.

“You can call me Fitz,” he says with a small chuckle. “I would like to introduce Byron Langdon, who consults on security matters. He is also my husband, which I am required by the rules of the New York Bar to disclose at least once before he begins talking.”

“He just likes to brag,” Creed says, rolling his eyes.

“That too.” Fitz grins.

Langdon shakes his head, mildly annoyed in the manner of a man who has been loved in public against his will. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Crane.”

“Hi,” I manage.

Four adults settle into the strange shape of a video call that is anything but normal, but tries to be casual.

Very casual.

A normal Wednesday—wait, no, it’s Saturday.

I should have worn better lip balm.

Fitz folds his hands on his desk. “Ms. Crane, I want to walk you through where we are. Then I am going to ask you to make a decision, and I want you to take as long as you need. Is that all right?”

“Yes.”

“I am going to say things in this meeting that may be difficult to hear. If at any point you need a moment, please tell me. Lang and I are going to be careful.” His gaze shifts briefly. “Mr. Lafontaine is going to try to be.”

“I am going to be careful,” Creed says.

“Mr. Lafontaine is going to attempt to be careful,” Fitz corrects. “He has a track record when it comes to you.”

“I have improved, Fitz.”

“You have,” he concedes.

I watch them.

There is rhythm there. Trust. History. The ease of people who have a friendship or some relationship that’s been happening for years. A small, mean part of me wonders how many people Creed let close while I was somewhere else learning to be no one.

Then Fitz says, “Halston Saint Claire is well and alive.”

The room leaves me.

Not literally. My kitchen remains where it is. The screen remains open. The table stays beneath my elbows. I know these things because I am a competent woman, and competent women are very good at identifying furniture during emotional collapse.