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I swallow hard, forcing those thoughts down before they can throw me off track.
Theo is still waiting for an answer, so I settle on, “I don’t care how it makes me look. Come with me.”
He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like I regret every decision that led me to this moment. And then he asks, “You’re serious about this?”
I nod.
He releases the deepest sigh I’ve ever heard, shifting slightly like he needs to physically look away from me to process the absurdity of my request.
“Lila. I have said maybe ten full sentences to you since the school year started. We actively avoid each other in the halls.”
Oh, so he’s acknowledging these things. “Both valid observations.”
“Why would I agree to this?”
That’s a really good question; thank you for asking. I steady myself for what comes next. This is where I have to tread carefully. “Because you still care.”
His expression shutters.
I continue. “The way Victoria was murdered? It’s messy. Not blood-everywhere messy—personal messy. She was strangled. That takes time. It’s not impulsive, not distant. It’s emotional, close-range, face-to-face. Whoever did it didn’t just want her dead—they wanted her silenced. Just like Henry. And then they tried to make it look like a break-in, like some random robbery gone wrong. But drawers were pulled open, not ransacked. Jewelry was missing, but the expensive stuff was left. It’s like they panicked halfway through the story they were trying to tell. If there’s something buried in that house—if Peter really was innocent…” Like you and I both know he was, I don’t say. “Then someone in that family’s been keeping the lie alive ever since. But now they’re slipping.”
His expression hardens.
He knows I’m right.
He looks at me like he’s about to cross-examine me. “And what exactly do you expect to find that the police haven’t?”
I hesitate. Because the truth is, I don’t know. I just know that my gut—the same gut that told me something was wrong with Peter’s conviction—won’t let this go. “I’ll know when I find it.”
His eyes lock with mine, but I don’t flinch. He’s the first one to look away, spinning his chair around to face the wall behind his desk. His head falls back against the leather, and he releases a long, frustrated breath.
If he thinks ignoring me will make me go away, he wildly underestimates my commitment to being a nuisance when it comes to getting what I want.
While he gathers his thoughts, I take the opportunity to glance around his office. It’s exactly what you’d expect from a man who spends his days dissecting legal ethics—bookshelves crammed with case law, neat piles of papers, not a single personal photo in sight.
It’s very put-together, but cold.
Just like him.
The only thing even vaguely humanizing is a half-empty coffee cup sitting next to the keyboard, but even that feels like it belongs in a museum labeled Exhibit A: Evidence That He Occasionally Consumes Sustenance.
I wonder if he ever eats real food.
Probably not. He seems like the type to subsist entirely on caffeine and quiet resentment.
I shift in place again, suddenly aware that I've been standing still too long. My fingers twitch, restless, so I drum them against my thigh. The movement helps keep my brain from feeling like a live wire in the silence.
Theo spins back around and leans forward, elbows resting on his desk, fingers steepled in front of his face.
He opens his mouth to speak.
Closes it again.
Rubs his right temple with his index and middle finger.
“Exactly how do you know Emily Mayfair well enough for her to invite you to stay with her whole family for an entire week immediately following the murder of her mother?”
“We shared a dorm during my first year of undergrad.” I shrug, nonchalant.
