Page 335 of The Lies We Play

My hand. His hand. The place where our wedding tattoos touch every time his thumb moves.

Creed has been pacing around the apartment since we got back, phone in hand, jaw locked, searching for therapists, neurologists, trauma specialists, and doctors who can see Hal without being within breathing distance of Saint Claire money. At some point, he stopped in the middle of the living room and said, “Fuck it. Let’s move to another city or country.”

Neither of us answered because neither of us knew if he was joking.

I’m still not sure.

Suddenly, Creed says, “Fitz is calling.”

“Did something happen?” I ask.

Halston lets out a sound that is almost a laugh and not close to one. “Other than my family tried to kill you?”

His hand tightens around mine. Then he scrubs his face with his free hand, his palm dragging over his mouth like he’s trying to remove the memory of the courtroom from his skin.

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Hal, it wasn’t⁠—”

“I knew it could happen,” he interrupts me. His voice is low, but it has that dangerous edge now. The one that means he’s turning the blade inward. “I knew what they were capable of, and I still asked you to⁠—”

“Forward, Hal,” Creed cuts in.

Halston looks at him.

Creed’s face is controlled, but his eyes aren’t. “We can’t dwell on the what-ifs from then. Not today. I’m going to answer, and then we can discuss the therapists and doctors I’ve found so far.”

He taps the screen.

“Fitz.”

“Are you with Hal and Livia?”

“Yes,” Creed says from the kitchen.

“I’ve got news,” Fitz says. His voice sounds tired and wired at the same time, the voice of a man who’s been running on coffee, rage, and subpoenas. “Constance, Whelan, and Everett were apprehended. Taken into federal custody from the courthouse. They won’t be released today. We’re calling favors and paying people so they may not be released for a long time.”

Halston’s hand tightens again.

Not a flinch.

A reaction from deeper than that.

“The trustees of the Saint Claire holdings—six individuals—are being taken into custody as we speak,” Fitz continues.

“All of them?” I ask.

“All of them,” Fitz says. “Plus the second attorney at Whelan’s firm, the medical director at the Connecticut facility who signed off on Halston’s holding, and the executor of Cornelius Saint Claire’s trust, who was supposed to be acting in Halston’s interest and was instead acting in Constance’s.”

The apartment goes so quiet I can hear the faint hum of the refrigerator.

Then Fitz says, “We have identified one of the men who tried to kill you. We’re hoping everyone arrested will start cooperating, so we can get the rest.”

Creed stops pacing.

Halston stares at nothing.

I keep holding his hand because letting go now feels like dropping a rope when someone is still climbing.