Page 53 of The Lies We Play

Another: He laughs only when startled.

Another: Orange tab = betrayal.

My breath stops.

Orange tab.

The memory from the boardroom. The woman with the ring. The legal papers. The sweatshirt.

I find a photograph next. Old. Folded once, then smoothed flat. My grandfather Cornelius standing outside the foundation archive, much younger than I remember him, one hand lifted against the sun. This is the picture Everhart gave me when he quit. A memento he was able to get from the evidence my family was using to claim I needed a caregiver to handle me.

On the back, in my own hand: a phone number.

Beneath it: Call him when you stop being afraid.

I sit down because my legs are no longer trustworthy.

Him.

There is no name. It is probably Fitzhenry, with answers. It has to be Fitzhenry, with answers.

My hand doesn't want the phone when I lift it. I enter the number digit by digit. Twice, I stop before pressing call. Once, I stand and walk to the window, like distance from the desk might make this less insane.

Rain moves down the glass in silver lines.

Somewhere in the city, Creed Lafontaine exists. Tired after a game. A man, I am sure I know, but how? He’s not a dream. Nor a figment. He’s not some highlight reel I watched while browsing my phone. Not a memory my family would call confabulation if I were foolish enough to ask.

Maybe Fitzhenry can tell me about him.

But what if this phone is no longer available?

What if no one answers?

I pace around my apartment, write stupid things in my journal so my therapist sees I’m doing the work. He reports to my family. There’s no such thing as patient/doctor agreement between us.

It’s way past midnight when I press call.

The line rings once.

Twice.

On the third ring, someone answers.

A voice, rough and impatient and so familiar that my hand closes around the phone until my knuckles ache.

“Yeah?”

The word ruins me.

I should have prepared a sentence. A reasonable one. I should explain that I found his number. That I have spent a decade living inside a life that now feels staged by people who knew exactly where to hide the exits. I should ask him if he knows when everything got broken. Or why I remember Creed Lafontaine.

Instead, I close my eyes.

Rain taps the window.

The city moves below me, and I’m not sure what to do.

Chapter Nine