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He looks at me, recalibrating. “Are you kidding me right now?”

“They’re soooooo brown. Like chocolate. Or coffee. My two favorite things.” I reach up to pat one of his pecs, miss, and then kind of thwap his collarbone. “S’fine. ’M very resilient. Science.”

“Science just knocked you the fuck out, Jennings.” He gently glides his fingers through the hair at my temple and I lean into his hand.

I shoot him a look, equal parts woozy and entertained. “Yeah, but like cool science.”

Theo closes his eyes, maybe contemplating throwing me into the chemical waste bin where I belong.

By the time I’m mostly conscious again, I’m sitting in a rolling chair with Theo kneeling in front of me.

“I cannot believe you chloroformed yourself,” he says.

“It was an accident,” I protest, “and also, in my defense, that project was very interesting. I was actually thinking about using it on you when it happened.”

He glares at me, a flat kind of look, but doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t let me stand for ten minutes. Every time I try, he pushes me gently but firmly back down. At one point I think he’s doing it for my own good, but honestly, I suspect he just doesn’t trust me not to do something else reckless while high on chemical fumes.

“This is, without a doubt, the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever done,” he says.

“Oh, buddy,” I say, amusement flickering across my face as I prop my chin in my hand. “You underestimate me.”

August pipes up from the desk. “I’m in, by the way. Also, is Lila okay?”

“I’m fine,” I call.

“She’s not fine,” Theo says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Theo rolls me in the chair toward August, who twists the screen toward us. “The files on this thing? Chef’s kiss. Surveillance video, financial transactions, logs, and what looks like some very shady emails about Henry Mayfair’s tox report. There’s a PDF in here that literally shows he was poisoned with hellebore. Not even trace amounts. Not borderline. Like, this man was poisoned poisoned. Capital P. Double tapped. Clocked out by chemistry. The man was knocking on death’s door before the garrote ever touched the skin of his neck. Not even logged in the official police report.”

Theo and I look at each other. For a second, we forget the chloroform. Forget everything but the white-hot weight of discovery settling around us. That means Henry and Victoria both died in exactly the same way. And both instances of hellebore poisoning were wiped from evidence.

I would ask how that’s possible. But I know the answer.

Money can buy a lot of things.

“Oh,” I breathe, but before I have time to process the bomb he just dropped on us, he finds something else.

His brow furrows as he clicks again and again, navigating through folders with names like “Pending,” “Live Leads,” and one particularly bold one labeled “Narrative Arcs.” He snorts. “You guys. This isn’t just hoarding evidence. This is curated. Organized. There are timestamps, edited transcripts, and—hold up—theme music files?”

Theo leans in. “Theme music?”

August double clicks on a file. A dramatic cello riff plays for three seconds before cutting off.

He points to the screen. “Baryn hasn’t been compiling all of this for blackmail, leverage, some sick obsession, or because he’s trying to cover anything up. He’s funneling it to a true crime podcast.” He pauses for dramatic effect and then drops the hammer. “His podcast.”

I startle. “I’m sorry, what?”

“It’s called Casket Case,” August says, deadpan. “Tagline: True crime. Real unsolved mysteries. No fluff. He’s listed as ‘B.R. Slate’ on the uploads. Anonymous, because it does seem like he uses editing software to change his voice, but⁠—”

He clicks on an unedited audio file. Baryn’s voice fills the room. It’s unmistakably him. “The thing about murder,” he says, “is that it’s never about the act itself. It’s about who gets to tell the story afterward.”

“Sound familiar?” August asks.

I gape. “Shut. Up.”

“Nope.” August pops the p. “Dude has been researching his own family’s cases and is planning on leaking the info as serialized true crime content with creepy voiceovers and everything. Probably thinks he’s the morally tormented antihero of his own noir thriller.”