Page 61

We pass a portrait of Henry Mayfair, and I swear his painted eyes follow me like they know I’m too close to the truth. Or maybe not close enough.

We tiptoe the rest of the way like criminals. Hungry, exhausted criminals with a vendetta against cheese puffs and a shared gastrointestinal weakness.

“We’ve been in the archives for, what, eight hours?”

“Give or take an eternity,” Theo groans. “If we find one more box labeled ‘Tax Receipts 2013–2014,’ I’m filing a missing persons report for my will to live.”

We reach the kitchen door—massive, carved walnut, unnecessarily ominous—and I ease it open with a creak that sounds like it belongs in a horror movie.

Inside, the kitchen is everything you’d expect from an estate that has live-in staff and a wine cellar with mood lighting: stark, a mix of modern and aged, aggressively curated. Matte black cabinets. Brass fixtures. Marble island.

And in the far corner, the mother of all fridges.

It’s sleek. Stainless steel. Probably smarter than both of us combined.

“I feel like it’s judging me,” I eye it from top to bottom.

“That’s because it senses you’re about to open it with the energy of a woman who’s planning to eat cold pepperoni straight from the package,” Theo says, heading toward the pantry.

He’s not wrong.

I tug the fridge open. The interior lights up like a spaceship.

Inside: rows of kombucha bottles, overpriced sparkling water, something called “bone broth concentrate,” a sad trio of apples in a linen hammock, and—blessedly—a stack of pre-cut fruit containers.

Theo appears at my side holding a bag of what looks like dehydrated mango slices and a box labeled “puffed ancient grain bites.”

“Rich people are exhausting,” he says, peering into the fridge. “Who alphabetizes their nut milks?”

“People who can afford to pay someone else to do it for them,” I say, grabbing two snack boxes and shutting the fridge with my hip.

We end up perched at the marble island, legs swinging like teenagers, eating artisan turkey slices and cashew cheese under soft pendant lighting.

For a minute, it’s… nice.

Unhurried. The kind of normal I forgot existed over the last few days.

Theo’s eyes catch mine as he bites into an oat cracker. “So. Lactose intolerant?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Have you ever gotten contaminated in public? Like, full system shutdown?”

I scrunch my nose. “Theme park. Churro stand. I asked if the cinnamon sugar had dairy. They said no. Thirty minutes later, I was crying behind a trash can outside an indoor roller coaster.”

He winces in sympathy. “Oof. I once got dosed at a coffee shop. The barista said it was for sure oat milk after I triple checked. Spoiler: it wasn’t. I made it halfway through class before I had to flee my own lecture.”

“That happened to my best friend once.” I say, fiddling with the cracker wrapper. “Laurel. Except she made it ten steps before insisting she was fine while literally turning grey. Not the lactose thing, but from chemo. She was adamant about continuing things as they were even while she was sick. She said her work was too important, so she kept working for as long as she could.”

Theo’s chewing slows. “She sounds stubborn.”

“She was impossible,” I say, smiling even though it hurts. “In every way. Though I suppose her work was important. I always admired her. She was a family court advocate and guardian ad litem trainer. It meant more to her than anything to be able to support women and kids in difficult custody or family situations. She did workshops for new foster parents, court-appointed volunteers, and social workers. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone as passionate about their work as she was. Enough so that she was willing to barf a few times in front of a large group of people, explain that she wasn’t contagious, and keep going.”

“It sounds like she mattered to a lot of people,” he says in a hushed tone. “Not just those she helped. You talk about her like she anchored you too.”

I huff a laugh. It comes out a bit like I’m trying too hard to sound normal. “She did. Or she tried to, anyway. Even when she probably shouldn’t have.”

Theo nods, watching me in that patient way of his—like he’s waiting for me to say the thing I don’t want to say.