Page 161 of The Lies We Play

My soul tells me as much. If only I could remember.

Were they my long-lost lovers?

No.

I don’t think they were lost—they were stolen. The correction arrives from somewhere deep and certain.

Creed was not lost. Livia was not lost. I was not lost.

We lose keys. Receipts. Time.

People are taken.

I dry my face and open the bedroom door.

Everett stands in the hall wearing a charcoal suit, no tie yet, phone in hand. He probably came from the gym. He smells like shaving cream and dirty money. Behind him, the hall is lit softly by sconces my stepmother chose, because she said overhead light was unforgiving.

Almost everything in this apartment is designed to forgive everyone except me.

“You look rough,” Everett says.

“Good morning to you too.”

His mouth curves. Not a smile. Something practiced at the edge of one. “Bad night?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” I shrug, as if it’s a natural thing everyone should be used to.

“Did you take anything?”

The question is casual.

It is never casual. This is a trap. If I’m taking something, then I’m falling back into the wagon, and I should be sent to rehab. If I’m not, then I need a retreat to remember how to take care of myself. These people are getting ready to send me away again, but why?

“No.” I shrug a shoulder again, then walk toward the kitchen.

His gaze moves over my face. Briefly. Clinically. “You should have called Dr. Sen.”

“I had insomnia, Everett. Not a cardiac event.”

“You know what lack of sleep can do to memory.”

There it is.

The word memory, placed between us like a warning.

I lean one shoulder against the doorframe and force myself not to close the door in his face. “Is there a reason you’re here before eight?”

“The Florence file.”

My pulse shifts.

I keep my face arranged. Then cock an eyebrow. “What about it?”

“You asked for it yesterday.”

“Oh, that one,” I say so casually, even I buy my I-don’t-give-two-shits mood. “Yes, I want to go through it.”

“It’s being assembled.”