Page 162 of The Lies We Play

“Assembled?” I snort. “They’re documents, not building blocks, Everett.”

“Some of the material is archived externally,” he states. “The Conservation Institute won’t just let documents be released without authorization. Margaret is coordinating with legal.”

“I asked for the complete file by five.”

“You’ll have what’s relevant.”

I look at him.

He looks back, calm as a priest.

“What’s relevant is all of it,” I say.

Everett’s expression changes by one degree. “You’ve become very interested in Florence.”

I frown. “Should I not be?”

“You tell me.”

I almost laugh.

“Foundation-funded conservation work is part of my purview.”

“It is part of Margaret’s.”

“And I sign off on board authorization.”

“Sometimes.”

“This week you’ve asked me to sign a load of documents,” I remind him. “If I have to sign, at least I should know what I’m agreeing to do.”

He gives me that look then. The one I know. Mild concern arranged over fucking irritation.

“About that,” he says.

I don't move.

“The board noticed you hesitated with several documents.”

“I didn’t hesitate. I refused.”

“Refused is an aggressive word.”

“Accurate ones often are.”

His mouth tightens. “Halston.”

The main door opens, and my stepmother appears in a cream silk blouse and trousers, hair pinned low, face immaculate. She has always looked like someone painted by a man afraid of women. Beautiful in the accepted ways. Soft in the places that photograph well. A woman who can turn pity into a table setting.

I hate that I don’t have any privacy in this house. They come freely because I can’t be trusted on my own. I should count myself lucky that they allow me to be in this building during the week without supervision. But am I really unsupervised? I sound paranoid, but no one should blame me. These irritating assholes have been controlling me for years—maybe even using me.

“Morning,” I greet her, hoping Everett moves on from me to her. “I didn’t know we had a morning meeting. Perhaps you two should take this outside.”

She rolls her eyes and says, “Glad I didn’t have to wake you up.”

“Apparently, it’s happenstance.” I try to sound neutral, but the sarcasm drips from the last word.

Her gaze dips to my bare chest and shorts.