Her mouth twitched. She tried not to smile. Failed. “Considerate.”
She stepped back, letting me in.
The house was dim, most of the lamps off, full of old rental furniture—a couch with worn arms, a coffee table scarred from years of use, threadbare carpet underfoot. It wasn’t empty, though. It felt lived in. Claimed by her. A sketchbook lay open on the table, shoved against a calculus textbook like it had won the fight.
Her mom’s car was gone, just as Mila had said in the text. She tracked my glance toward the driveway.
“She’s working late,” she explained, tugging open the fridge and handing me a bottle of water. “Or just ‘out’ is the more likely phrasing.”
I nodded and dropped onto the couch, twisting the cap off. Took a pull. My shirt still clung damp at the collar.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Define okay.”
She didn’t press. Just waited. So I gave her what I had. “Theo met with someone—his sister’s friend. She interned at Dunn for a semester last year before transferring to UCLA.”
Mila’s head lifted, interest flickering. “And?”
“She said most of it was grunt work—copies, coffee runs. Kept out of anything that mattered. But once, she overheard herboss on the phone. Talking to a Mr. Langley. She said his tone changed—uptight, a little panicked. As though whoever Langley was, he carried weight. Enough that just the name stuck with her.”
Mila went still.
“Mr. Langley,” she whispered. “That’s what Elise said. On the phone.”
It had to be the same person. But Darren was dead. Wasn’t he? Not only that, but he didn’t have any living relatives.
Mila sat down across from me, tucking her legs under herself, voice quieter now. “I don’t know what they want from me. My mom keeps saying everything’s fine. That it’s under control. That I shouldn’t stir the pot.” Her jaw tightened. “But I know what I saw when I met her at King Enterprises. Darren Langley was dead.”
I held her gaze. “Are you positive? Because his name keeps surfacing, and yet there was never an obituary. No notice. Nothing public. Doesn’t that strike you as—off?”
Silence pressed in.
Her voice cut through it, low and certain. “I’m positive. There was too much blood. His eyes were open—sightless. No sirens. No one coming. And even if they had been, it would’ve been too late. You don’t come back from that.”
Then I added, “My PI called me earlier.”
Her eyes snapped to mine. “Already?”
“He’s fast.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much yet. But he found a financial record of a rental storage space in Darren’s name. Leased under initials. Closed two months after he disappeared.”
Mila’s voice dropped. “Closed by who?”
“Don’t know. No record of a signature. The payment history ended in cash. The paper trail just… stops.”
Her brow furrowed. “So he wanted it hidden.”
“Or someone else did.”
It wasn’t proof—of life or death. Not even that the unit had belonged to him and not someone using his name. But it was a thread—thin, frayed, leading somewhere. And I wasn’t about to let go.
She didn’t speak for a while, just stared at the carpet, lips pressed together as if she was holding in a hundred thoughts.
Her silence stretched, heavy. Then she shifted, almost to herself at first. “We were brought back here for a reason. Even if Mom doesn’t know it—or won’t admit she does. And if Dunn, or whoever’s pulling the strings, gets wind that we’re digging…” Her eyes found mine, voice lower now. “Do you think the same thing could happen to us that happened to Darren?”
