Page 137 of The Lies We Play

“What the fuck did you say?”

“I said if you want her alive, you don't call her tonight. You don't call Halston back. You don't text either name. You don't open an old photo folder in some sentimental cloud account and start searching for pictures like a tragic man in a documentary.”

“That was specific.”

“Because you are predictable when wounded.”

“I’m not wounded.”

“You sound like a man trying to bite through his own spine.”

The voice in the background says, “Accurate.”

“Shut up, Lang,” I say.

“I would, but I’ve spent several hours with my sources trying to figure out how to keep your woman and your man alive,” Lang states. “Fitz always wondered if they had been in an accident. I wasn’t there when that happened, but we believe . . . you need to be cautious and listen.”

I sigh.

“Creed,” Fitz says. “Are you still with us?”

The way he says my name pulls me back. I sit down slowly.

“What’s the plan?”

“Short-term, we get each of them clean communication. Halston first. Livia second. Neither through ordinary channels.”

“How?”

“Burner phone for Halston. It needs to be physically delivered without triggering whoever is monitoring him.”

“He said he’s under conservatorship.”

“He is.”

My jaw locks. “How the fuck is that legal?”

“Money, medical testimony, family affidavits, and a man with enough memory damage to be framed as unreliable whenever he disagrees.”

I close my eyes.

Halston’s voice returns.

I’m a recovering alcoholic. I almost killed a woman...

A story told so often it became furniture in his mouth.

“What about rehab?” I ask. “He said they drag him there when he doesn’t behave.”

“They have used treatment as leverage. Not always formally. Enough to keep him compliant. Enough that he knows the threat.”

“I’m going to kill them.”

“No.”

“I wasn’t asking permission.”

“Good, because I’m not giving it—” He pauses—“We can promise that they’ll pay.”