Page 84
Based on everything I’ve studied about offender psychology—particularly the behavioral patterns of organized serial offenders—this has all the hallmarks of a trophy box. Not in the pop-culture sense where killers stash dramatic souvenirs, but in the behavioral-evidence sense: curated items that reinforce control, commemorate the act, and help the offender relive whatever emotional peak they hit during the crime. It’s intentional, ritualistic, and meant to serve a psychological function long after the event itself.
There’s no time to go through everything—we’d need hours, days—and we can’t risk staying here much longer than we already have.
We drop all the drives into the empty pocket of Theo’s bag.
Marshmallow lets out a tiny squeak that somehow sounds like agreement.
We’re just about to make our exit when something else catches my eye, tucked innocuously beside the door.
A laptop bag.
Black. Zipped. Monogrammed.
I freeze. “Theo.”
He turns, following my gaze. The look on his face shifts. There’s a moment of hesitation. Then he takes half a step toward it.
It feels too easy. Too weird that he left it behind.
Then I remember where Nora said he was headed, and it clicks that electronics aren’t exactly part of a silent retreat. He wouldn’t need a laptop there.
“Are we taking it?” I ask, quieter than I’ve been the entire night. It feels like it’s drawing too much attention, even though we’re alone. Taking something he left in plain sight, something he will no doubt notice is missing right away, feels more risky.
Then again, we did shove his entire murder trophy collection straight into our pockets, so maybe not.
His eyes scan the bag for a beat longer than necessary. “Hell yeah, we’re taking it.”
He grabs it without another word, slinging it over his shoulder. We move in sync, backing away from the desk, careful to leave the other things as they were before we arrived.
We find our way back into the basement, and I leave Marshmallow to his fate. Poor guy deserves an owner who’s not possibly implicated in two murders.
The house above us doesn’t stir. Cameras still down. No alarms. No pastel-clad security brigade storming the hedges.
We’re seemingly in the clear.
For now.
15
VOLATILE COMPOUNDS
LILA
Graham’s lab smells like burnt coffee and industrial cleaner, which honestly somehow feels on brand for a place in the basement of a university building that might've once been used for Cold War experiments.
Which, to be fair, is only a slight exaggeration. There’s a cork board pinned with grainy photocopies of behavioral modification studies that absolutely should not still be in circulation.
It’s probably all harmless archival nostalgia. After talking to Graham once, I know he’s a little eccentric. The harmless kind, I hope—the kind who keeps a pet fern he talks to and accidentally puts his lunch in the freezer, not the kind who unintentionally pioneers a coercion technique.
Or maybe Bellwood has a basement habit of fostering research that raises eyebrows at international tribunals. Hard to tell.
I suppose universities collect weird things all the time. Especially Bellwood, which hosts rotating exhibits built almost entirely from whatever the Mayfairs have donated over the years. Antiquities, oddities, things no one can date without bringing in a specialist. It’s their version of school spirit, I guess.
Then I spot a file labeled “compliance thresholds,” and the universe pats me on the head for my optimism.
Still, Graham didn’t give me the sense he’s about to recruit me into a mind-control pilot program. Probably.
The overhead fluorescents flicker in a way that definitely wouldn’t pass a safety inspection—buzzing softly, flickering every few seconds like they’re short-circuiting. Something in the corner is humming with the menace of a machine plotting rebellion. I don’t know what it is, but it has too many vents and looks vaguely sentient.
