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I see it almost immediately. It would be too freaking easy, but it’s screaming at me to look inside.
One folder, tucked beneath a stack of credit card bills and a receipt for a humidity-controlled display cabinet.
I yank it out and flip it open.
And then I freeze.
“Theo,” I whisper. “I… I think I found something.”
He leans in over my shoulder, expectant. “Please don’t be pornographic images of Baryn in nothing but—”
“It’s worse,” I say, flipping the first page for him to see.
He blinks. “Wait. Is this…?”
I nod, wide-eyed. “Erotic haikus.”
We both stare, dumbfounded.
He reads aloud: “‘Your eyes undress me. Like taxes in early spring. I am so exposed.’”
I clap my hand over my mouth. “There are pages of these.”
Theo takes the folder from my hands almost reverently. “This one’s titled Lust in a Boardroom.”
“Oh my god.”
“There’s a whole subfolder labeled Seasonal Horniness.”
I’m wheezing. “Read one.”
He clears his throat markedly. “‘Pumpkin spice thighs, babe. You are the latte I crave. Whipped cream? Say my name.’”
I lose it.
Whatever lingering adrenaline I had is obliterated in a fit of laughter I have to bury in the crook of Theo’s elbow, clutching Marshmallow as he huffs in dramatic indignation. Theo’s shaking too, trying to keep it together and failing miserably.
When we finally calm down, I’m still wiping tears from the corners of my eyes.
“Well,” Theo slides the folder back into place, “at least we know Baryn’s been busy with something other than murder.”
“Very in touch with himself,” I mutter. “I think this means we have to move him to the bottom of the suspect list.”
Theo straightens at that, turning a bit more serious. “We’re laughing now, but I still want to know what this guy’s really hiding.”
I tap the folder. “Maybe the key to everything is in his cognitive backchannel.”
“Or in his receipt for a stuffed capercaillie couriered from Vienna,” Theo rifles through more papers. “What is it with rich douchebags and their affinity for taxidermied roadkill?”
We search every drawer, every shelf. Even the ones that seem too obvious, too boring, because Baryn’s the type who’d absolutely hide secrets in plain sight. Like behind a row of decoy books, all with titles like Speak to Win: Mastering the Spotlight and Unmute Yourself. As if Baryn has ever shut the fuck up as day in his life.
Theo makes a disgusted noise and starts shifting spines.
“That man has too many opinions for someone who probably says ‘grindset’ without irony,” I shake my head.
Theo snorts, then pauses, his hand hovering in midair. “Wait.”
He pulls one book out just a little too far and—click. A tiny mechanical sound echoes from the drawer beneath. A hidden latch.
