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Theo doesn’t seem to mind. He’s already in full detective-professor mode, unzipping his bag and arranging our meager evidence on the metal table in front of him. He doesn’t speak much, only hums under his breath, unbothered by the sterile unease of the room around us.

Graham looks exactly how I expected him to. Someone who probably sleeps under his desk and hasn’t seen the sun in a while. He’s seated at one of the benches, sipping from a mug that reads Crime Lab Daddy. His lab coat is wrinkled, his hair is a hot mess, and a half-eaten protein bar rests on top of a microscope next to him.

When we walk in, he acknowledges us with a small lift of his mug, the report in his other hand keeping him from offering anything more.

Leaving the compound was stressful at best after last night—like, full-body tension, every nerve on high alert—but it was necessary. So I came up with the most brilliant, on-the-fly excuse I could think of: I told Emily I had a standing allergy shot appointment I absolutely couldn’t reschedule. Life saving stuff. I laid it on thick about how it only takes, like, an hour tops, and how it’s super important because, you know, springtime and pollen and me spontaneously combusting from breathing too close to a blooming dogwood.

Theo rubs his temple. “I feel like this is going to make or break us.”

“You would think that,” I say, because we did hopefully find the mother load last night. “But I refuse to be broken, and I feel pretty good about this laptop.”

“That we can’t access,” Theo says, matter of fact.

“For now,” I counter. I trust August’s hacking skills, based on what Theo’s said about him and vibes alone. It’s too early for his brand of realism.“And don’t forget the maybe-blood sample.”

On cue, Theo picks it up and tosses it underhand across the bench. Graham catches it without looking up, squints at the vial, and lifts it toward the overhead light. “‘Maybe blood’ is my favorite kind of blood,” he deadpans. “Adds an element of surprise.”

“Let’s skip the part where you lick it to confirm anything this time,” Theo mutters.

Graham shrugs. “I make no promises.”

We’d called him on the drive over, mostly to confirm what Theo already hoped—that if anyone could get into Baryn’s laptop, it was August. His day job is ethical hacking, which apparently means getting paid to break into things other people spent months securing.

Official title: penetration tester.

I was very proud of myself for not giggling at that.

As if summoned by the power of his own reputation, August appears in the doorway wearing a hoodie with some sort of death metal logo that could double as instructions for assembling cursed IKEA furniture if you squint just right, and long cat-print socks pulled high under his Birkenstocks. “I brought muffins,” he announces, holding up a ziplock bag with exactly four questionable muffins inside. “And also my genius.”

Graham’s head lifts immediately, the pen in his hand stalling mid-line. It’s a small shift—loosened posture that says he’s actually happy for the interruption this time. He sets the pen aside, features softening. “They need into a laptop.”

“Oooh, B&E evidence. My favorite morally grey hobby.” August pauses to plant a kiss on Graham’s cheekbone, which he offers while simultaneously stealing a muffin from the bag. Then, he slides onto the stool next to Theo, smacks a kiss on his cheek too, and plucks the laptop from his hands.

Theo rolls his eyes, fond.

“Give me twenty minutes,” he says, cracking his neck with dramatic flair. “And maybe some caffeine. Preferably in an IV bag, but I’ll settle for coffee. Or the energy drink I left in the fridge.”

“Deal,” Theo says, already reaching for the fridge. He hands one of the radioactive-looking cans to August, who cracks it open and chugs it dry with barely a pause in what he’s doing.

Graham grumbles something about caffeine-induced cardiac events and returns to his work, the resignation in his voice making it clear this isn’t a new topic for them.

I peel back the corner of one of the muffin papers. It’s very mushy. “What exactly is in these?”

“Eye of newt, graveyard dirt,” August says. “And maybe some expired applesauce. Hard to say. Definitely a questionable amount of nutmeg, and like two whole bananas.”

While August starts clicking away like a caffeinated squirrel, I wander around the lab.

It’s mostly the usual: centrifuges, microscopes, unlabeled beakers. The floor is a patchwork of scuffs and chemical spills and there’s a cardboard box in the corner labeled “DO NOT TOUCH” in permanent marker, which feels like an invitation to do exactly that. I take a step closer before remembering Theo is about five feet away and has the moral rigidity of a federal agent, at least in daylight hours.

Then I notice something more interesting: a covered workstation marked Historical Toxins Project.

That one, I decide, is worth the trouble.

There’s an old chemistry journal open on the counter, and next to it, an array of chemicals laid out like a DIY kit. The handwriting is jagged, digging slightly into the page. Across the top, in block letters, it reads: Chloroform Extraction Using Sodium Hypochlorite.

Oh hell yes.

I’ve read about this process. It’s basically bleach and acetone mixed under the right conditions. Not practical, but kind of fascinating in a “how did we not die in the 1800s” way.