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“And what would that be?”

I roll my eyes. “To find out who killed her mother, obviously.”

Theo scrubs a hand over his face like I’ve personally drained the last bit of energy he had left to finish the day. His features are all sharp lines and sleep deprivation—messy dark hair, a too-serious jaw, and that perpetually furrowed brow that makes him look like he’s permanently stuck in a state of silently judging everyone around him.

“Lila—” his tone softens when he says my name; I’m not sure if it’s because he’s over this conversation or just as haunted as I am by all the ones we never finished.

“I need your help.” I flex my fingers at my sides, fighting the urge to wrap my arms around myself. His office is freezing.

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m asking,” I say flatly.

“I don’t need to. If it involves any combination of you, the Mayfairs, and a murder investigation, then it’s a bad idea.”

I place my hands on his desk and lean in. His dark eyes drop to my mouth for half a second—so fast I almost think I imagined it. But I didn’t. I’d recognize that look anywhere. Intense, charged. That kind that walks the line between wanting to kiss me and wanting to kill this entire conversation.

Desire. Frustration. Maybe both.

“Professor Grayson, listen. I know you hate thinking about the Mayfair family. I know Peter’s case ruined your career. But that’s exactly why you should want to see this through.”

Something dark and searing flashes in his expression. Potentially dangerous in a way that I don’t hate.

Then it’s gone, replaced by the same impassive mask he always wears around me.

It makes me want to push more of his buttons just to see what it takes to get him to really react.

“Peter is dead,” he says. “There’s nothing left to prove.”

“But what if there is?” I counter. “What if Victoria’s death is connected to Henry’s?”

He doesn’t respond, but I can tell he’s considering it.

He leans back, uncrossing his arms. Still skeptical, but not outright dismissing me anymore, which is progress. “I know what you believe, Lila.”

“And I know you believe the same, just fucking admit it already.”

“Even though every major forensic analyst, legal expert, and detective involved in the original case agreed on Peter’s guilt?”

I nod, unbothered.

He shakes his head like he wants to argue more, but he doesn’t. He just eyes me in a way that makes me want to squirm. Then, “You realize this makes you look obsessed, right?”

That word—obsessed—makes something inside me twist.

Because he’s not exactly wrong.

There’s a fine line between passion and obsession. I’ve been walking it for a while now.

Laurel used to tease me for fixating on every cold case I came across, as if each one was personal.

If I’m being honest, since she died, I’ve been terrified that stopping—stopping the search, stopping the movement—means falling apart. Even if all I’m doing is spiraling, at least I’m still moving. So I keep chasing the next thing, pushing forward because I don’t know how to stop.

I feel like I’m running out of time to do something meaningful, to be someone important, to prove my life isn’t for nothing.

Since she died, this is the one thing that’s made the most sense to go after.

And this? This isn’t just any case. It’s not cold, either.