Page 319 of The Lies We Play

I nod, though neither of us believes okay is a place we can reach by saying it.

I put the letter back in the folder.

Then I hold the folder to my chest and stand.

This time, when the house closes behind us, it doesn’t feel empty.

It feels like my father finally handed me a weapon and called it love.

Chapter Forty-Three

Halston

Now . . .

When I wake up, Aren tells me they’re moving me.

Just like that, no more explanation, just get ready and grab a few things.

So now I’m in Brooklyn, on a street where the trees have lost half their leaves and the rest are rust-colored, clinging to branches like they haven’t accepted the season yet.

The house is a brownstone with a narrow entry, polished floors, and a kitchen so immaculate it feels staged for people who don’t own coffee mugs. White cabinets. Black counters. Brass fixtures. Though there’s nothing that says anyone has ever stood here at two in the morning and eaten cereal over the counter because sleep would not come.

Aren mentioned something about a safe house. Honestly, I didn’t pay attention.

My attention stopped at the mention of Creed and Livia being on their way there.

Livia is coming.

She will be here, breathing the same air as me, and I am afraid I won’t recognize her. Not the way I should.

I know her laugh because that’s all I remember, just like I do her voice.

None of that is enough.

None of it is fair to her.

I pick up a book from the table because my hands need something to do. A thriller, paperback, spine cracked in three places. I read the first page four times and learned nothing except that the main character owns a gun, drinks black coffee, and has trust issues, which makes him either a detective or an idiot. Possibly both.

Then the front door of the brownstone opens.

Aren is there before I am, although I didn’t hear him come down the hall.

A woman’s voice in the foyer.

Low.

Quiet.

Familiar in a way that doesn’t belong to my mind.

My body knows before I do.

In no time, I am standing in the kitchen with both hands on the edge of the counter, forearms locked, because my legs have decided to become unreliable without consulting me.

The female voice says, “Where is he?”

Aren says, “Kitchen.”