Page 71

Death isn’t a mystery until it’s yours to solve. You can know it’s inevitable and still be blindsided when it happens—especially when it comes fast, messy, and attached to a word like murder.

In the aftermath, people grab for whatever scraps of normal feel within reach. Sometimes that means clinging to the only people who understand the shape of the loss.

There’ve been too many times I’ve wished I had someone who remembered Laurel’s laugh, her strange food quirks, the way she said exactly what she thought and never regretted it for a single second.

I wish I were able to share that space with someone who gets it, a tangible reminder that she was real. That the ache she left behind isn’t mine alone.

I didn’t know Laurel’s family well enough to share any of that with them. They live hours from Bellwood, and she’d been openly relieved to get away when she moved here.

Even after she died, I didn’t reach out. It didn’t feel right, not when Laurel had spent years trying to carve out a life separate from them. Not when I understood all too well what it felt like to need that kind of distance.

Ours had been its own small world. We were each other’s person, in that desperate way people become when they don’t have anyone else. At the time, it felt unshakable. In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the healthiest thing for either of us.

At least I understand the impulse now—the need to hold on to someone, anyone, who makes the world feel less empty. Maybe that’s part of why I said yes to all of this.

I can’t say I’m not grateful for this outing. Theo and I are technically just tagging along, but it gives me the perfect excuse to casually grill the Langleys without looking like a complete lunatic.

Call it multitasking: support Emily, solve a murder, eat a scone or two. Win-win-win.

I’m sure opportunities will arrive to worm my way into conversations with everyone else this week too.

Theo lingers behind us, hands tucked neatly into the pockets of his slate-gray slacks. He looks like someone out of a lifestyle magazine’s “Spring Professor Aesthetic” spread. Completely calm, almost bored. I wonder what he’d do if I threaded my arm through his, so I do.

I love the look of surprise on his face, the way he freezes before schooling his features and leans into the gesture. I tip my chin up at him, in a taunting kind of way. Wiggle my eyebrows for good measure.

He mouths, “behave.”

That does nothing but make me want to do the exact opposite.

His hand closes around the basket handle. A wordless exchange—his raised brow, my stubborn frown—and then it’s gone from my grip, tucked neatly under his arm as if the decision had always been his.

The door jerks open with so much force it rattles the hinges, and Katherine fills the frame, blinking at us with wide, glassy eyes. Her expression lands somewhere between delight and disorientation—like she’s been waiting for us, but forgot why.

Her blonde hair is clipped back in a way that suggests a battle was fought and lost, frizz haloing the victory. The lavender sweater hanging off one shoulder looks handmade, maybe mid-laundry cycle, and there’s a bright smear of what might be raspberry jam just under her collarbone. Her pupils are huge. She’s practically vibrating.

“Emily!” she bursts out, too loud, too cheerful. “Oh, you’re here! Wonderful! I was just reorganizing the spice cabinet. Did you know I own five different kinds of paprika?” She laughs, a little breathless. “It’s Wednesday, isn’t it?”

This isn’t the Katherine I know. Grieving or not, she’s usually composed, not this bright-eyed, restless blur who looks like she’s been mainlining espresso.

“Thursday,” Emily says softly, stepping past her into the house. “We moved it this week, remember? You said you had an appointment yesterday.”

“Oh!” Katherine’s frown flickers into a too-bright smile. “Right. Yes. Yesterday. That’s right.” She nods quickly, as if saying it enough times will make it true, already half-distracted by something just above Emily’s shoulder.

Seems to be the Mayfair way: medicate, mask, move on. Not that I can judge. I’ve had my own versions of coping. I just happened to pick different vices. Mine looked more like eighteen-hour workdays, an excessive amount of caffeine, and pretending exhaustion was the same thing as peace.

She leads us into the living room, her slippers whispering against the tile in quick, restless steps. The fireplace is lit, but it’s mostly decorative, the flame too weak to do anything but flicker against the polished surfaces.

“I thought Thomas would be home by now.” She sinks into a velvet armchair that looks more suited for display than comfort. She doesn’t so much settle as she trembles in place, hands fluttering against the armrests. “He said he wouldn’t be long.”

Emily maintains a careful politeness. She seems just as confused by Katherine’s state as I am. “He’s probably just running late.”

I cross the room, sidestepping a pair of loafers poking out from beneath the chaise, and hold out my hand for the basket. Theo hesitates for a beat before passing it over, his expression a mix of curiosity and silent good luck with that.

“For you,” I tell Katherine, setting it on the coffee table in front of her. “Evelyn thought you could use a little pick-me-up.”

Perhaps pick-me-up is the wrong phrase, considering she’s already emanating at a frequency only dogs can hear. Still, the sentiment stands.

Katherine brightens instantly, eyes wide as she leans forward. “Oh! How lovely—how thoughtful! I adore gifts.” Her words tumble out in a rush. “Mother is such a dear. I should call her. Or maybe write her a note—people don’t write notes anymore, do they?”