Neal nods, looking at the drawing more than at Malcolm. He can feel his hand starting to tremble. What’s wrong with him? Why can’t he do this? It doesn’t have to be some grand statement piece, as though he’d know how to make an original one if he tried. That’s not who he is. He’s a forger. A mimic.

Neal gets up abruptly, setting sketchbook and pencil down on the chair. “Lunch sounds good actually.”

It doesn’t, and he pauses, because a lie is a lie.