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My stomach plummets through the marble at my feet. “Pardon me?”

He arches an amused brow. “Didn’t you know? You have a brother. His name is Gideon Everett. He is twenty-one years old, currently a resident at Westgate Recovery Center in Saugerties, upstate.” I don’t know if he’s fucking with me or not, but Lukas’s face shows no emotion whatsoever. “How long has he been there?”

“With all due respect, sir, that’s none of your?—”

“Almost eight weeks, is the answer,” he continues in a bored drawl. “This is your third attempt at getting him clean. The first two didn’t take. It’s a tough business, kicking addictions.”

I grip the armrests of my chair, white-knuckled and furious. “How thehelldo you know any of that?”

“I know many things, Ms. Everett.” He picks up the pen on his desk and rolls it between his scarred fingers. “How much do you owe for his care?”

My face is splotchy with anger and heat. “I don’t see what this has to do with?—”

“Fifty-three thousand dollars.” He sets the pen down. “Give or take.”

I look away for a moment so he can’t see my burning cheeks. “Is there a point to this?”

“I’m establishing context.”

“For what?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he asks, “Do you cook?”

I blink. “What?”

“Cook. Prepare food. Do you do it?”

“I... Sometimes? I guess?”

“What do you make?”

“I don’t— Why does that matter?”

“Answer the question.”

“Pasta, mostly,” I say. “Eggs. Basic stuff. My mom taught me a little bit. ‘Housewife 101,’ she called it.”

He nods. “Do you sleep well?”

“No. Not ever.”

“Why not?”

“Because my life is stressful and I can’t afford therapy.” I grab the edge of his desk and scoot myself closer. “Mr. Lazarev, can you please just tell me what any of this is about?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Not yet.”

I want to scream. “Then what am I doing here?”

“Being interviewed.”

“For a position you won’t describe.”

“Correct.” He picks up the pen again. “Do you have a boyfriend?”