Page 191 of The Lies We Play

“I had to leave the apartment,” I say. “I’m supposed to be at breakfast with my stepmother.”

“Be careful.” His reaction is immediate and the sound of his voice is concerned. “She hates you.”

I tip my head back against the iron. The cold goes through my coat and bites into my spine. “I’ve been wondering how fake the love and devotion she pretends to have are.”

“Don’t wonder too hard,” he says. “Look deep inside yourself. You must know she’s faking love in exchange for the money she couldn’t get after your father died.”

And somehow, I do. I know he’s right.

“Are you somewhere safe?” Creed asks.

“I’m in a doorway. Two blocks from where I live. Everyone thinks I’m walking off insomnia and heading toward some fundraising breakfast.”

“How long do we have?”

“Probably twenty minutes before someone notices I’m not where I said I would be. Less if Everett checks his phone.”

“Then talk fast.”

“Yes, sir.”

He makes a sound—part annoyed, part amused.

“So, the phone, the asset—” I pause —“Whoever brought the phone. They were inside the apartment. Past everyone.”

“Yeah.”

“You knew that was going to happen?”

“I knew Fitz would handle it. I didn’t know how. He doesn’t like me to know how.” Creed’s voice turns dry. “Plausible deniability for the man with the public face.”

“He sent a note,” I say. “An asset is watching me now.”

“Yes.” The word scrapes out of Creed. “I—” He takes a breath. “I wish I could be in two places at once,” he says, and now the control fractures. “But I can’t be with you or Liv. Not until it’s safe.”

Liv.

Her name cuts through me so cleanly I almost miss the pain until it is already spreading.

There it is. The third point of the triangle. The woman whom neither of us can reach. The woman who changes the air between us, even when I don’t know where to find her. The woman, I don’t believe I’ve earned the right to miss this much, and yet I do.

“Is she safe?” I ask.

“There’s an asset with her, too,” he says. “In Florence.”

I frown. “Florence?”

“Yes. Apparently, she lives there and works for The Bianchi Conservation Institute⁠—”

“The foundation works with them,” I cut in. “Have I spoken to her?”

“No.”

Something in me sinks and resents the sinking.

“I doubt you have,” Creed adds. “And please don’t try to reach out to her. Not yet.”

“Have you spoken to her?”