Page 212 of The Liar's Reckoning

Bold words.

Maybe, but I can’t help myself. Love and lust swirl through me like a potent drug as I try to get back to work.

Since Silas is working,my first stop in Manhattan on Saturday morning is my apartment where my sister is making pancakes for the kids. They greet me like I’ve beenoff fighting a war for two years—with excitement, long hugs, and cheers. Probably because I always bring home gifts.

I have a charm bracelet for Rowan and a Lego set for Carter. They’re thrilled. Theresa gets a UVA hoodie with a front pocket which is her preferred way to dress whenever she’s not working.

“Chocolate chip pancakes?” she asks.

“Is there whipped cream?”

“Obviously.”

“Yes, please.”

The kids are back in school, and I spend breakfast catching up with them, learning about their teachers and classmates. As I’m about to suggest a trip to the museum, my phone rings.

Dad.

“I’ll take this in my office. Hey, Dad,” I say as I leave the table and head down the hall.

“We need to talk about these Democrats.”

Jesus.

I shut my office door and take my seat at the desk, debating whether to fire up my computer and fully engage or try and postpone this.

“I’m hearing from friends that they’re trying to take the sex work law out of the bill.”

“That’s not exactly what’s happening.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“I can’t. You’ll just have to trust me.”

“Damnit, Graham. We’re past that, aren’t we? Just tell me what’s going on with the bill.”

My good mood sours instantly, and with Theresa still banging around in the kitchen, her suggestion to talk to Dad about the way I’ve been feeling lately resurfaces. I doubt he’ll take the news about my seeing Silas again well, but maybe it won’t be the catastrophe I used to think it would be.

However, the suggestion that I share inside information about the committee’s work with him is mildly insulting. I don’t mindlistening to him drone on about how he’d like to see things unfold, but telling him details about the work I’m doing isn’t going to happen.

“Don’t go soft on me, Graham. There are a lot of important people who will be very unhappy if that law doesn’t pass the way you and I talked about.”

“And how many will be unhappy if it does?”

He seems to take a moment, and when he responds, his voice is kinder. “What are you saying, son? You don’t sound like yourself.”

His genuine concern is the crack of light in the closet I live in. His love. It’s sincere, even if it may end up being conditional.

“It’s been a long week,” I tell him.

“Come for dinner. I’ll see how much information I can pump out of you.”

“I can’t tonight, but I’ll stop by before I head back to DC.”

“Why?” he asks. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Why do you want to know?”

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