Page 288 of The Lies We Play
He drops his keys in the bowl by the door.
He stands there for a long beat with his coat still on, hands in his pockets, mouth tight.
To love this man is to know him in layers.
This is one of the bad ones.
The layer where his hands are colder than the room, his words get more precise, and every inch of him looks polite enough to survive a murder trial.
“Come sit down,” he says.
Liv glances at me, then at the couch.
Her face says, Is he paying attention to the fact that he sounds like a man calling a board vote in our living room? Should we be concerned? When is the intervention?
“You want us in the living room or at the island?” I ask, because he is obviously calibrating something that has nothing to do with us and everything to do with Cornelius Saint Claire being dead.
Losing Cornelius to a sudden heart attack has been harder on Halston than he expected. He is not completely sure it was just heart failure that no one caught. In Halston’s mind, nobody in that family dies naturally.
Nobody.
“Island,” he answers, taking off his coat.
Liv is already moving. She puts the legal pad on the arm of the couch and comes to the island in her socks and the sweater of mine she stole after Christmas break. She sits on the stool to my left.
Halston stands on the other side of the island.
He doesn't sit.
That tells me enough.
“Everyone is fighting for the inheritance,” he says. “They are claiming Cornelius lacked testamentary capacity when he executed the will.”
Liv blinks once. “In English.”
“They’re saying he wasn’t mentally competent when he signed it.”
“When did he sign it?” Liv asks.
“Four years ago,” Halston says. “He was competent. He knew exactly what he was doing. And as we know, he left me everything.”
He clears his throat.
“Everything.”
“Somehow, I think that’s a problem,” I say carefully.
Halston scoffs. “Did you miss the part where I said they’re fighting it?”
“Hey,” I say. “I’m not your enemy.”
His hand goes through his hair.
One pass.
Hard.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m frustrated.”
