Page 145 of The Liar's Reckoning

Yes senator. I’ll email my notes. Give me an hour.

According to my phone, it’s six o’clock. I check in with myself asking the usual question. Could I eat? The answer is its usual, sure. If you want.

I’ve looked it up, and the technical answer is that I don’t fit the criteria for clinical depression. I’m still functional. While I lack interest in most things, my mood hasn’t interfered with mywork. I have enough energy to fake it during all the TV interviews I’ve done. I look forward to my morning showers, and I sleep a normal amount.

On the downside, I have tremendous difficulty generating a smile. A laugh? Ha. Those are so forced and fake, I’m surprised no one’s called attention to them.

A small head peeks into my study behind the cracked door. I lift my brows at the young intruder. “May I help you?” I ask as formally as I can manage.

“Mom wants to know…” Rowan gulps. “Pizza?”

I arch a brow. “Momwants to know, does she?”

Rowan’s spine stiffens, and she lifts her chin. “That’s right.”

“And what kind of pizza doesyour momhave in mind?”

Rowan moves to stand in front of my desk. Her dark curls are scraped into a tight French braid. Her eyes are huge and blue—I’m assuming her long lost father’s trait, but they’re lined with thick black lashes like all the Lawthers possess. “She’s open for negotiation on that topic.”

“I see. Well, you can tell your mother it’s pepperoni or nothing. I’m not in the mood for negotiation, and since we’re on my dime, I’m holding all the cards.”

My niece nods solemnly. “I’ll make sure she understands, sir.”

I manage a half smile.

She beams back, her new braces gleaming. “Thanks, Uncle Graham.” Rowan slow walks back into the hall, but I hear her pace pick up as she heads for the living room.

I lean back in my chair and look up at the ceiling. It was risky, bringing Theresa back to the city where she went wild in high school, but after some minor adjustments, our new living arrangement is going great.

Once my father let me out from under suicide watch, my first visit was to my sister. She’d been exhausted—working two jobs and overwhelmed. Her two kids were in constant trouble at school for being late or falling asleep in class. I’d been angry atthe situation and angrier at my father for hanging her out to dry. To my surprise, she hadn’t had a drop of alcohol for months, and was sincerely trying to get her shit together, but as with so many single moms, she couldn’t get ahead.

It took some convincing to get her back to New York, but ultimately I sold the Chelsea apartment and rented a place on the Upper West Side after looking into the schools. Shortly thereafter, Theresa, Rowan, and my five-year-old nephew Carter moved into the three-bedroom in a relatively quiet, older neighborhood. It lacks the glitz and prestige of the UES, but the proximity to the park and the museums—has been great for the kids.

Before joining them in the kitchen, I indulge myself by pulling up the location sharing app I never deleted. Every time I open it, I pray to God he hasn’t either.

A soft breath of relief sighs from my chest when I see Silas’s location. He’s in his new apartment. It’s my favorite place for him to be. Obviously there’s no way of telling whether he’s alone unless I go down there and see for myself, but the handful of times I have, I’ve only ever seenhimpassing by his windows. Therefore, it’s become my default assumption.

Throughout the year since we parted ways, I’ve watched him go from Queens to Manhattan. Hotel to hotel. Building to building. He hasn’t been to Queens since January. It took me two weeks to piece together that his mother must have passed away, and that was the closest I’ve come to calling him. I’d held the phone and wept silently from my office in DC until my tears ran dry, and still I was left with choked sobs that eventually had me dry heaving over the toilet.

Pathetic.

In March, I found her gravesite and laid a huge arrangement of white lilies against her modest headstone. I sat for an hour in the drizzly cold, telling her what I’d done. How I’d loved him. How I’d hurt him. I didn’t ask for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it.

Her name was Rosalyn. I’m not sure he ever told me that, butI think of her and that day at her grave a lot, wishing I’d said more. Wishing I met her when he’d given me the chance.

Anyway, I think Silas has a new lover. I know he works at The Eastmoor, but there’s another building on the Upper East Side where he spends evenings and nights every weekend or so. I should probably be happy for him. Or maybe I shouldn’t. I don’t know. This is my first time having an ex or being an ex. I’m not sure how it’s supposed to work. I only know I’m jealous. Bitterly so.

“Knock, knock.”

I glance up at my big sister. Her dark brown curls are particularly springy today framing her thin face. She’s wearing overalls and a striped t-shirt that looks like something a kid would wear. She’s got her glasses on, but they’re shoved up in her hair. “Are you ordering the pizza, or should I?”

“I don’t mind.” I say switch into a food delivery app. I order the usual two pizzas as she takes the seat opposite my desk.

“How was your call?”

“Obnoxious,” I say. It’s the best word for it.

“I can’t tell. Do you love your job or hate your job?”

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