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Right now, he’s looking at me like that.

And he’s probably internally cursing the entire bloodline of whoever agreed to make me his colleague.

Did I mention my thesis was built around the fact that the forensic evidence used in Peter Mayfair’s conviction was flawed?

Yeah. Maybe this was a bad idea.

Because the one who presented that evidence in court—who tried and failed to keep Peter from being convicted?

Theo.

And while I hadn’t meant for it to be personal, it was. My entire thesis—my proud, overachieving, publishable thesis—basically screamed you screwed up to the one person who tried to get it right.

So, yeah. It pissed him off. And I can’t even blame him.

Secretly—very secretly—if Theo Grayson had a fan club, I’d probably be its president.

Not because of, you know, reasons sexual (though… Okay, fine. Like I said, he’s not not attractive… Have you seen him? He’s like if Adam Driver and a Harvard law syllabus had a very grumpy baby).

But mostly because the man is a walking archive of logic and borderline genius-level intuition. Which, for someone like me, is catnip.

Intellectual catnip.

Just to be clear.

It’s not even because I like him—because I don’t. He’s insufferable. Condescending. The human embodiment of an exasperated sigh wrapped in a well-muscled package.

But he also happens to be the most brilliant legal mind I’ve ever encountered despite his very public shortcomings, and unfortunately for both of us, that makes him useful. Because if anyone can help me untangle the mess at the heart of this case, it’s him.

That’s why I’m currently standing in his office, watching him stare at me like he’s debating whether or not it’s acceptable to throw a shoe at a person.

“No,” he says, flatly.

I blink. “I haven’t even asked you anything yet. Well, at least not what I came to ask.”

“You don’t have to. You have that look.”

I’d probably hurt my hand if I punched him in that infuriatingly pretty face, but that’s never stopped me from wanting to.

“What look?” I really need to learn to school my features.

“The one that says you’re about to ruin my week.” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “So, absolutely not.”

This is going to be harder than I thought.

I take a breath, gearing up for the battle. “Victoria Mayfair was murdered,” I state plainly.

He stares at me, unimpressed. “Yes, I’m aware. It’s been all over the news.”

“But you’re missing the important part.”

“Which is?”

I know this means more to him than he’s willing to admit. He wears detachment like armor, but I can see the cracks. “I got an invitation to stay at the estate over spring break.”

That gets his attention. His posture shifts forward, just slightly. “Why?”

“Because Emily Mayfair is my friend,” I say, then wince. “Which makes the ulterior motive part feel extra shady, since I’m definitely not telling her about it.”