Page 25

"The problem was," Theo continues. "There were no secondary traces. No fibers, no prints, nothing tying Peter to the strangulation, except for the fact that he was possibly in the house, and the fact that they spun a story that he had a motive."

Graham leans back. “And now Victoria’s dead.”

“Which means,” I chime in, “either history’s repeating itself or someone’s finishing what they started.”

"The case never sat right with me," Theo says. "Nor Lila. The forensic evidence was circumstantial at best, but I couldn’t prove it. The autopsy told us how Henry died, but it didn’t tell us what was used to strangle him, or who was behind it. And the jury didn’t need incontrovertible forensics when they had Peter’s supposed history, his financial situation, and his goddamn piss poor attitude.” He half snorts. “He was convicted before either of us ever stepped foot into the courtroom.”

I have known all along that Theo feels dejected about this, but this is the first time I’ve heard him say any of it out loud.

“So you really don’t think Peter did it?” I ask him hesitantly, and I realize how desperate I sound.

“I think someone wanted it to look like he did.”

My stomach twists. I’ve wanted to hear him say these exact words for far too long.

“And you think whoever killed Henry just killed Victoria?” Graham asks.

Theo’s silence is an answer in itself.

August leans into the frame. “So what’s the plan? Spy on some rich people? Seduce a suspect?”

My tone turns saccharine. “I was thinking something more along the lines of ‘subtly infiltrate and gather evidence,’ but if seduction becomes necessary, I’ll keep my options open.”

“No one is seducing anyone,” Theo says with a grumpy finality.

August glances between the two of us. “You sure about that, big guy?”

Theo huffs. “Goodnight, August. Graham.” And he ends the call.

I nudge Theo with my elbow. “Your friends are fun.”

He unceremoniously drops his phone onto the nightstand. “The thought of having you and August in the same room is my personal nightmare.”

I grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The bed is not small.

And yet, we have somehow managed to make it feel comically inadequate.

I am precisely at the edge, teetering between the mattress and the abyss, my arm dangling off in silent invitation to whatever under-bed demons might be lurking. If they want to drag me to hell tonight, honestly, I wouldn’t fight them on it.

My body’s locked in the same rigid caution reserved for handling biohazardous waste, and right now, Theo Grayson might as well be carrying the plague.

Theo, for his part, is lying board-stiff, arms crossed over his chest like he’s in a goddamn coffin.

I peek over at him, one eye squinting against the post light peeking in through a crack in the curtains. “Comfy?”

“The comfiest,” he deadpans, not even bothering to look at me.

I snort, rolling my eyes.

Lying here, I feel like we're both fragments of something awkwardly stitched together by this ridiculous situation. Two jagged edges forced into a shape that doesn’t quite fit. There’s a massive fault line between us, stretching like a chasm down the center of the bed, and I just know it’s going to get in the way of this investigation if we don’t figure out how to behave like actual adults.

But I don’t know how to take back all the things I’ve done to make him hate me so much. At this point, the list is long enough to be cataloged. Publicly embarrassing him in front of his colleagues at Bellwood. Forcing him to relive the case that wrecked his reputation. Making things awkward between us when, at first, we seemed to really just get each other.

Not that any of it was ever personal. Not really. But try explaining that to the guy who looks like he’d rather be set on fire than share oxygen with me.

Theo stares at the ceiling, expression borderline pained. Then, abruptly, he swings his long legs over the side of the bed.