Page 83 of The Lies We Play

“It is.”

“Do you have a lawyer?”

A pause.

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

“There was one. Years ago. Everhart. I thought I was calling him.”

The room narrows.

“Fitzhenry Everhart?” I repeat.

“Yes. That’s the one.”

I scoff.

Fucking Everhart.

What did you do, you old meddler? What did you give him? How long have you been waiting for him to find his own door?

“You thought this was his number?”

“Yes,” he confirms. “He said to call when I was ready.”

My grip on the phone changes.

He gave Halston a number and let him believe it belonged to a lawyer, but it called me. That man is brilliant in his own twisted way. If only he had been able to help me get to Halston back when I asked him to. I haven’t forgotten about it. He told me I would understand someday.

Today, apparently, is someday.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “That’s good. You being able to reach out to me is good.”

“It doesn’t feel good.”

“No. It feels like shit. Good and shit aren’t mutually exclusive.”

A sound moves through the line.

Almost a laugh.

It hits me harder than any sob could.

“You always this charming?” he asks. “I think I like it.”

There he is.

Just a flash.

Just enough to make me ache everywhere.

“Don’t get sentimental,” I tell him.

“I don’t remember if I was.”

“You were insufferable.”