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“We were hungry,” I say quickly, like a kid caught with a cookie before dinner. “Tillie brought cheese puffs and we’re both lactose intolerant and we missed dinner because⁠—”

He holds up a hand. “Spare me. I’ll clean this.”

I glance at Theo, who seems deeply invested in his cuticle.

“If you’re still in need of nourishment, I’ll have Tillie bring something to your room,” Giles says, already opening a drawer to retrieve a very professional-looking dishcloth. “Something you can digest without dramatics, if we’re lucky.” He turns back to us. “You may go now.”

I am almost affronted at the fact we are being firmly dismissed from the kitchen by a man who addresses humans the way he probably addresses misbehaving mop buckets.

I glance back at the fridge as we’re leaving.

It’s still dark. Still completely quiet.

But I swear I can feel it watching.

11

THERMAL TRANSFER

LILA

“True crime podcasts,” Theo scoffs once we’re back in our room. “Fat chance that’s what the fridge has been picking up on.”

I hum in agreement.

When I can’t sleep, I usually put on a similar podcast.

One of those investigative ones where some guy with a soothing cadence digs into a decades-old murder in a small town no one’s ever heard of.

Right now it’s a case out of Libby, Montana, and I’m completely hooked.

Unfortunately, I usually fall asleep somewhere between “previously on” and “you won’t believe what we found in the creek”, so I have a lot of catching up to do once we’re finished with all this here.

I don’t know what it is about investigative podcasters. They’re basically professional busybodies with expensive microphones, and I love them for it. They can’t let things go, even when everyone tells them to stop digging.

It’s kind of what Theo and I are doing, just with sponsorships and less emotional damage.

The numerous shocks of the day twist through my mind as I brush my teeth and towel dry my hair. The mirror is fogged from the heat of my bath, a half-hearted attempt to thaw my entire being and relax muscles that refused to loosen. Theo was right about the horseback riding leaving me sore, but I’ll die before admitting that to him.

I catch my reflection only long enough to be reminded what exhaustion looks like when it wins.

By the time I come out of the bathroom, Theo’s already in bed. He’s on his side, glasses settled on his nose, eyes moving steadily over the pages of a book. The lamplight catches in his hair and traces the sharp lines of concentration across his face.

I twist my head to the side to take a peek at the title of the book he’s holding.

Of course he’s reading about forensic taphonomy.

Of course he looks good doing it.

I have the brief, slightly deranged thought to take a picture. Because Serena would fall in love on the spot. Not because I want to make it the wallpaper on my phone.

I hover near the foot of the bed, not ready to relax. Or, unable to rather.

Theo glances up, eyes following me for half a second before he shuts the book and reaches for the lamp.

He pauses before pulling the string and notes, “You’re doing that thing where you stare into the middle distance and plot your own downfall,” he says, then after a beat adds, “Or mine.”

I scrunch my face, annoyed. “That is not a thing I do.”