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August: it was six at night when I started typing
Graham: I woke up to forty-seven unread texts.
Theo: Impressive. Disturbing, but impressive.
August: finally, someone appreciates my dedication to justice
Graham: Dedication to fictional crime drama and unnecessary disorder*
August: says the man married to me
Theo: Remind me why I’m in this group chat again?
August: for educational purposes and because i like annoying hot men with doctorates.
Graham: Mission accomplished.
August: thank you
7
MORTEM INTERVAL
LILA
Ishould be appreciating the view, soaking in the rare, tranquil moment before I inevitably get saddled onto an animal several times my size with a brain the size of a walnut.
Instead, I’m picturing Theo’s reaction to all this—his potential disdain for hay, horses, and any activity that involves denim. It’s a shame that this is our quality time for girls' day. I think I would enjoy seeing him suffer in cowboy boots.
In addition to that, I’m watching Emily actively contemplate death.
Not in the usual our-family-is-cursed kind of way.
No—more the I drank too much wine and am struggling to remain conscious kind of way.
She’s perched on a wooden fence post, oversized sunglasses crooked on her nose, hood up, arms locked around herself to stave off the cold. Her skin’s pale, carrying that damp post-wine regret sheen I know too well. Classic hangover misery. I’ve been there. Hell, I’ve looked worse.
I climb up onto the fence beside her, boots sliding a little on the lower rail before I settle next to her. “How’s your hand?” I ask, nudging her knee with mine.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even acknowledge my existence at first. Then, her breath clouds the air as she lets out a low, raspy groan, “Lila, if I die today, tell them to bury me somewhere scenic.”
The corners of my mouth twitch, but I manage to hold it in. “Noted. Preferably near a vineyard?”
“God, no,” she groans like the thought of wine at all might make her barf.
I let the moment stretch between us, let the soft sounds of rustling trees and distant birds fill the silence. Emily grimaces as she flexes her bandaged fingers, like she’s remembering exactly how dinner ended.
Then, voice quiet, she says, “I’m sorry about last night.”
I keep my eyes on the horizon. “For what?”
She lets out a dry laugh. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe for announcing your deep-seated BDSM fantasies to the entire table? Or for getting blackout drunk and bleeding all over the place? Your pick.”
I shrug, keeping my tone light, casual. “Please. Like Baryn wasn’t already going to find some new way to make my life hell. And as for the blood—you really need to work on that, Mayfair. If I had a nickel for every time you fainted at the sight of an open wound, I could probably buy my own horse.”
She grimaces. “Don’t remind me. I still have nightmares about that anatomy lecture.”
Her expression pinches.
