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It’s subtle—so subtle that if I weren’t already looking, I would’ve missed it completely. But I see it. A faint discoloration just above the baseboard, where the sheen of the paint shifts ever so slightly.

At first glance, it looks like a flaw in the finish. A scuff. A shadow in the brushwork. But then I step closer, and the shape clarifies—thin, reddish-brown, smeared across the otherwise smooth surface like a fingerprint dragged sideways.

Definitely blood.

And definitely there before the paint fully dried.

I glance at Theo, and he’s already staring at it. He doesn’t need me to say it. We both know what it means.

We’ve always been like this, even while mildly at each other's throats.

It’s why my advisor insisted I ask him to sit on my thesis committee, because it was obvious to anyone who’d been around us for more than a minute that he understood the way I think. The questions I had before I asked them. The patterns I’d see before I could explain why they mattered. We didn’t talk much outside of meetings, but somehow, he always knew exactly where my brain would go next. Still does.

Someone brushed against this wall while the paint was still tacky. After the murder, but before the scene was officially processed. Someone bleeding.

And not the victim—Victoria’s body had no injuries that would have caused bleeding., which means this didn’t come from her. It came from someone else. Maybe the perpetrator. A split knuckle, a careless cut.

It’s something that would be easy to miss in bad lighting. A detail a shitty police officer would overlook, and Bellwood’s got no shortage of those. The blood is dried into the paint, oxidized to a dull rust shade, half-hidden by the wall’s uneven texture.

I shift my weight, angling myself just enough to block the others’ view, moving with a skilled subtlety earned from a lifetime of covering my own ass. Theo doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t ask questions. He just sets my bag down, hunches over like he’s tying his shoe, and reaches into his pocket.

Could we have come back later? Probably.

But that would’ve meant leaving it to chance, risking someone noticing the flaw and touching up the paint while they’re still wrapping up the remodeling.

Theo stealthily pulls out his phone and snaps a picture with barely a flicker of movement.

If anyone else notices, they don’t say a word.

We say our goodbyes to the family, and Emily leads us down the long, dimly lit hallway toward our room.

She opens the door to let us inside, and it is at that moment that I realize I’ve made some terrible, horrible, no good, very bad life choices.

Lila: Update from the field: I have made a shocking discovery.

Calla: You found the murderer already??

Serena: Did you alert the authorities?

Lila: Worse.

Calla: …There’s a second murder???

Serena: You are the second murder, aren’t you? Are you contacting us from the other side?

Lila: There’s. Only. One. Bed.

Calla: *gasps in tropes*

Serena: Oh, this is better than murder.

Calla: You’re telling me you, Lila Jennings, are going to spend an entire week sharing a bed with Professor Grumpasaurus Rex?

Lila: Technically, I’m going to be spending an entire week making Theo’s life as miserable as possible while we are trapped in this ridiculous, romance-novel scenario.

Lila: Which will take zero effort on my part because he simply hates being in my vicinity.

Lila: He said he’s sleeping on the couch.