Page 227 of The Lies We Play

But something in me drops so fast I can't catch it.

Fitz continues, carefully, “He has been under conservatorship for almost nine years, since he woke up from the accident.”

A sound breaks out of me before I can stop it.

Not a gasp exactly. Something smaller. Worse.

“He . . .” I press my fingers to the table because if I don't touch something real, I might come apart right here in front of three men and a laptop camera that is absolutely not qualified for this. “He would hate that.”

Creed’s eyes move over my face.

“He does,” he confirms, and the pain in his voice hurts so much I want to crawl through the screen and into his lap. Which is inconvenient and humiliating and very off-brand for a woman who has spent ten years cultivating independence, discipline, and a strong working relationship with repression. “But he doesn’t know the whole story. He has amnesia.”

“Have you . . .” I swallow, then try again because Bella is still at my wrist and stillness from Bella is never comforting. “Have you seen him?”

Creed shakes his head. “Not yet.”

My mind goes to Hal immediately. Hal in a room that is too quiet. Hal, surrounded by people he hates but can't remember hating. Hal with his watchful eyes, his fists, his brutal tenderness. Hal, who trusts like it costs him blood. Hal, under their care.

“He must be scared,” I say. “If he’s with them—Creed, he must be terrified. You have to save him.”

“He is,” Creed says. “He also hates his current situation, even when he can’t remember how much he loathes his family.”

The words hurt because they sound exactly like Hal.

Even stripped of memory, even trapped inside whatever lies they built around him, some part of him still knows to fight the room.

Fitz takes over, voice careful but not soft in a way that would insult me. “According to a professional I spoke with yesterday, he may be recovering his memory in a non-linear pattern. He is currently in possession of a secure phone, just like you.”

I look down at my left wrist.

Bella has not moved since Creed appeared on the screen.

Which is unfortunate, because stillness is what my body does when it is preparing to absolutely lose its mind.

I am unable to speak for a few seconds. Too much information has been thrown into my lap like someone handed me a burning archive and said, Kindly organize this by date and emotional devastation.

Hal is alive, has amnesia, and . . . he’s under conservatorship.

Creed is right there.

I have no idea where to begin. Questions. Action. Grief. Rage. A plane ticket. A murder. Possibly lunch, although that seems ambitious.

Once Fitz seems certain I have not entirely left my body, he resumes. “Ms. Crane⁠—”

“You can call me Livia,” I interrupt. “Technically, I’m not Ms. Crane.”

Creed’s jaw shifts.

A tiny movement.

Enough.

My stomach turns because, of course, he knows what I mean. Crane is the name the world kept for me. Not the name that matters here. Not the name tied to Hal and him.

Fitz nods. “Good, Livia. I am going to outline the situation. The foundation fraud you uncovered is real and substantial. We have begun preparations to bring it to federal investigators. The provenance laundering is one piece. The conservatorship is the larger one.”

He pauses.