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My mouth quirks before I can stop it. “Don’t forget abuse of a corpse.”
“No one is writing an exposé,” Theo cuts in before Baryn can fire back. “There is a profound lack of interest on either of our parts in turning any of this into entertainment.”
Baryn snorts. “You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes,” Theo says. “Because what happened here is not a story to exploit. It is a record to be handled carefully. Appropriate reports have been filed. Certain facts will never see daylight. That is the balance we find. You are not a criminal, Baryn. You are a man who made a series of questionable choices in an effort to protect someone you love.”
Baryn fixes us with a look that hovers between doubt and disbelief.
Theo continues, more sincere now. “And you’re already serving a sentence. One you don’t get to walk away from.” He nods toward Emily, who’s still a few feet away, wrapped in her own world, unaware of the conversation happening around her. “You’ll keep showing up. You’ll keep carrying it with her.”
Baryn’s jaw ticks. “Being there for Em is not a punishment.”
“I didn’t say it was a punishment. It’s choosing to take responsibility, every day, in ways no courtroom could require.”
For a second, no one speaks.
Then I feel the need to add, “Besides, you’re the one who makes money off of other people’s murdery misfortunes, B.R. Slate.”
His mouth falls open. He had to have known we know by now. Unless, in the middle of all this, his investigative instincts have dulled.
A thought occurs to me. If Baryn was willing, we could work together to finally put Peter where he belongs. On the right side of the truth.
Emily laughs this time, interrupting my thoughts, clearly not as unaware as I’d thought.
I look over to find her watching us, her mouth curved just slightly. When our gazes meet, the smile falters, and before I’ve fully decided anything, my feet are already moving. I cross the distance between us.
For a heartbeat we just stand there, facing each other in the cool afternoon air, movers shouting in the background, boxes clattering, the house giving up its ghosts one crate at a time.
Emily steps forward at the same time I do, and we collide in a hug that isn’t gentle or careful or planned. Her arms lock around my shoulders; mine catch her at the waist.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For not walking away.”
My throat burns. “You are infuriating,” I choke out. “And reckless. And very bad at covert poisoning.”
She lets out a wet little laugh against my shoulder.
“But you are also very good at loving those around you with your whole heart,” I add. “And having a strong sense of justice, not unlike myself. Which counts for something. So we figure it out from there.”
Over her shoulder, I see Baryn watching us, face stripped of its usual performance. He looks like a man who understands that the person in my arms is the fulcrum on which everything that matters to both of us hinges.
Theo stands a few steps back, hands in his pockets, his attention never leaving me. When my eyes meet his, he gives me the faintest smile.
I hold his gaze for a beat longer than necessary, grounding myself there. Whatever comes next—whatever this all turns into—I know exactly where I’m standing. And who I’m standing with.
31
FINAL NOTATION
LILA
It’s been three months.
Three months since I left the Mayfair estate with my suitcase full of wrinkled clothes, a twisted wad of red string in my coat pocket, and my heart… not broken, exactly. But changed.
Theo and I are still teaching. Still arguing over case studies and crime documentaries and who gets the good coffee mug. We haven’t felt the need to say forever, because we’ve said tonight, and stay, and I’ll make dinner if you grade the rest. And more and more each day, it feels a whole lot like forever to me.
We moved in together halfway through the second week back. It wasn’t a dramatic decision. We just kept ending up in the same kitchen every evening, the same bed, the same routine. So one night, he packed a bag, and in small increments, it turned into everything he owned.
