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“They will if we have to turn it in!” I whisper-shout. “Why would it even be there? How fucking brazen?”
He shrugs slightly, still studying the thing like it’s a puzzle. “No idea. But I thought you should see it.”
I glance around the walkway, like someone might have followed us out. “Put it away,” I snap under my breath. “Please.”
He slides it back into his pocket with an infuriating level of calm, as if he hasn’t just been holding potential evidence in his hand.
I press my lips together.
We start walking again, slower this time. My thoughts swirl.
Theo nudges me with his elbow, gentle. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say automatically, though the word tastes stale after that shit show.
But my brain’s already sprinting ahead without me. The braided leather, the exact width and pattern of the ligature marks. We’d never known what was used, only that it left distinct impressions. Seeing it now clicks everything into place in the worst possible way.
I’m suddenly even more glad Thomas wasn’t home. What a stroke of freaking luck.
Thomas had it. He hid it. In a kitchen drawer, of all places, under takeout menus and old receipts like a fucking misplaced spatula.
I feel more unsettled by it the longer I linger on it. The weapon wasn’t lost or disposed of; it was right there in plain sight, in his house. Which means he either wanted to keep it close or couldn’t let it go. Either option makes me want to throw up.
That fucker.
He’s always had that unnerving calm about him; a detached, too-steady demeanor you read about in case studies. All he’d need is one more body to fit the diagnostic profile of an actual serial killer. Unless there already are others I don’t know about.
We're halfway down the sidewalk when a sound drifts over from the neighboring yard—an odd mix of bleating and… someone humming what might be the Star Wars theme?
It’s just strange enough to stop us both in our tracks, cutting through the mess of half-formed theories about to tumble out.
We round the hedge and come face-to-face with Nora Mayfair, in all her athletic glory.
Her hair is scraped into an updo so severe it could deflect bullets; I can’t tell if it’s the ponytail or the Botox keeping her forehead motionless, but either way, not a single muscle twitches.
Around her, havoc reigns in the form of three tiny goats. One perched precariously on her shoulder like a vainglorious little mountain king, one bleating near her ankle as if issuing a complaint, and the third attempting to headbutt a decorative garden stone into submission.
“Oh look who it is!” Nora trills, balancing in something approximating a warrior pose while the goat on her shoulder hops down and makes a beeline for Theo. “Lila! And the boyfriend.” Nora’s gaze trails over Theo, unhurried and obvious enough that even I feel it. Her eyes trail down his torso, over the rolled sleeves, and back up again with a look on her face that’s all mischief. I don’t miss the way his jaw clenches—or the way something in me does, too.
Who could blame her? His forearms are… a problem.
Theo gives her a polite wave, and I try to match his diplomatic energy instead of the unfiltered what is happening here on my face.
“Goat yoga,” Nora says, as if this explains everything. “It’s grounding. Also, apparently, amazing for your glutes.” She spins around to present the evidence, pivoting like she’s defending a thesis on her own ass.
“I’ll take your word for it,” I say, inching a little farther from the tiny goat currently chewing on the edge of her mat. I want to think it’s cute, but… the eyes. Wide and glassy, pupils horizontal.
Seemingly buffering a demonic possession.
I fight off a full body shudder.
Goat eyeballs are one of the only things that can thoroughly freak me right the fuck out.
“Come, join me!” she chirps, flinging one arm in a dramatic arc. “You have to meet Biscotti. He’s the sassiest.”
As if summoned, one of the goats sneezes violently, then hops up onto a nearby foam block.
“We really should be going,” I start, but she tuts and wags a perfectly manicured finger at me.
