āBetter to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.ā
-John Milton, Paradise Lost
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The lie I left home on was four words long.
āDevi needs me downtown.ā Signatures, filings, the tabloid cleanupāboring, bureaucratic, safe. Eze was half into a board call when I said it, one ear in a war he was fighting for my name, and he squeezed my hand and mouthed take Xavier, and I said I would, and I didnāt, and the four words worked the way lies work on people whoāve stopped guarding against you.
It was the first thing Iād taken from him since the island. It cost more than everything Iād taken before it combined.
I drove myself to Los Altos in an estate car with, at my request, Tiniās own eyes on the brake lines that morningāāyou think I donāt check everything with wheels now, escritora?āāand the gates swung open the moment my plates were read, and Poseidon reared over his fountain in the noon glare, and Dorian Ashcroft received me on his limestone terrace in linen the color of nothing, delighted, unsurprised.
āNo Ezekiel,ā he observed.
āYou said ājust Lola.āā
āI did. And here she is, on time and unaccompanied.ā He smiled at some private math resolving in his mind. āHe doesnāt know. Oh, thatās much better than Iād planned for.ā
Security processed me at the door like an airport with tasteāphone surrendered into a velvet drawer, a wand, a young man with oatmeal linen and dead eyes going through my bag. He lifted the tape recorder out and his eyes posed a question at his employer.
āIām a ghostwriter,ā I said, bored. āYou invited me to discuss a book. I record interviews. Itās in every profile your people compiled on me, which I assume runs to volumes.ā
Dorian laughed, waved a hand. āLet her keep her instrument. Writers without their instruments get restless, and everything in this house is swept on the way out anyway.ā His eyes met mine, warm as an autoclave. āEverything.ā
Noted, I thought, and followed him into lunch.



