Page 166 of The Lies We Play

And a thin phone.

I set the phone on the table as if it might explode.

The paper contains a few sentences.

Do not use your devices unless it’s a Saint Claire matter. We checked for bugs, and your apartment is clean. You’ve got an asset watching you now—you’ll be safe. Burn this note.

—F.E.

Fitzhenry Everhart?

Whoever left this envelope walked into this apartment. Past the doorman, past my stepmother’s personal assistant who supervises the grocery delivery, past the staff that has been vetted for ten years to keep me inside a particular shape of life. Whoever placed this tray placed it under the noses of the people who have been managing my breath, and they did it cleanly, and they did it on a tray, and they did it with toast.

I sit down at the table.

The phone screen wakes before I touch it.

One message.

Creed is waiting. Call him.

The room changes.

No.

Not the room.

Me.

I sit because my body has lost interest in dignity.

For ten years, every door has opened from their side. Doctors deciding when I was tired. Lawyers deciding when I was competent. Family deciding when I had recovered, relapsed, improved, or overreached. Rooms are opening because someone with my last name allowed it. Rooms are closing because someone with my last name feared what I might remember inside them.

This door is different.

It is small enough to fit in my hand.

It is black, probably prepaid, inelegant, and possibly illegal in three states if whoever delivered it is having a creative morning.

I have never loved an object more.

Another message appears.

If you can answer safely, type one word: here.

I stare at the screen.

Creed is waiting.

Fitzhenry is waiting.

I think of her name as Creed said it.

Livia.

Beautiful name, just like her.

Will I be able to reach out to her? Is that even a possibility?