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I stare at the screen like it might suddenly rearrange itself into something that makes sense. “I listen to that podcast.” I’m not about to tell them it’s my favorite, second only to Get the F*ck Out Already.

Theo’s gaze lingers, disapproving. “You’re telling me you’ve been listening to Baryn narrate crimes in his murdery ASMR voice and didn’t recognize it?”

“He uses a voice filter! And a fake name!” I throw my hands up. “Oh my god. I—he did that one about the girl in the suitcase with the orchids in her stomach. It was creepy as fuck and I’ve listened to it approximately five million times.”

August is clearly delighted. “You’re fangirling over our suspect. I love this.”

I shove a muffin at him to shut him up. “I am not fangirling. I hate him!”

Before I can regroup, Theo is suddenly crouching in front of me, fingers checking my pulse like he’s afraid I’m going to drop again. “You’re pale,” he says, face drawn tight. “Well. Paler.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, not wanting him to feel the way my heart rate picks up when he’s this close to me and his hands are on me.

“You passed out cold, Lila.” He doesn’t let go of my wrist.

“It was kind of fun,” I say, maybe a little too cheerfully. “I mean, not the floor part. Or the blacking out part. But the waking up to you hovering like you expected me to flatline and ruin your whole week? Ten out of ten.”

He rolls his eyes but I catch the flicker of a smile. “You’re infuriating.”

“Yet somehow still charming.”

“She is,” August agrees with me around a mouthful of muffin.

I take a deep breath and sit up straighter, the haze finally thinning completely. “Alright. Let’s get this wrapped. I’d like to not lose consciousness again today, if possible.”

Theo rises to his feet, “Back to the compound?”

“Back to the compound,” I say. “We’ve got a podcast-loving douchebag to profile and shit ton of evidence to try and unravel.”

He finally—reluctantly—lets go of my wrist.

I sit back in my chair, dizzy, doing a terrible job at keeping a straight face.

And this time, it’s not the chemicals.

“I’ll run the blood sample tonight,” Graham calls out as we head for the door, already typing something into his laptop with one hand and nursing his coffee with the other. “DNA takes a little longer. Gimme forty-eight hours and a whispered apology to Athena for what I’m about to do.”

Back at the house, I catch up with Emily and spend most of the evening in her room, sprawled across her bed while she meticulously paints her nails the same pale lavender as her phone case. She doesn’t say much at first, just hums along to a playlist of moody girl pop and occasionally randomly asks if I want tea or one of those weird collagen gummies she’s obsessed with. I accept both, mostly to keep her from looking too closely at me and noticing how off-kilter I still feel from earlier.

Eventually, the conversation drifts into family territory. Emily casually drops that her distant cousin’s wedding was cancelled because the groom got caught sexting someone from the family’s equestrian staff. The bride’s mother is threatening to sue for emotional damages. She says it with the same tone most people reserve for recapping a soap opera. Then she veers into a breathless tangent about how the family is “rebranding” and how one of her aunts (Nora) is convinced that wearing only beige attracts wealth.

She tells me a fact she saw on online that stops me cold: apparently, lobsters taste with their feet.

Also, she adds, squirrels can’t burp, male octopuses die right after mating, and there are people on the internet who think birds are secretly drones built by the government. I stare at her, unsure how we got from familial disgrace to all that, but it’s Emily, so I don’t question it because I’m just glad to be chatting with her without so much heaviness again. There is still an undercurrent of sadness about her, but she’s trying.

I let her talk, her words washing over me. I chime in when I think she expects a response and let the lull stretch between us when she doesn’t. She doesn’t press for anything—just lays next to me and rambles, like being close to me might help anchor her to something normal, which I am grateful for, because my mind is a million miles away.

I find out Baryn is still away on his trip, thank god. Emily mentions it in passing, saying something about him “networking with people who own too many vacation homes,” and I don’t ask for more.

The evening goes by in a blur of tea, nail polish fumes, and a half-watched movie we never finish. And before I know it, we’re both yawning.

Which leaves Theo and me approximately no time at all to compile everything we found and hash it out evidence-board style.

I remind myself I’m here for Emily—despite the fact that the other reasons I’m here are technically for her, too—and that tomorrow is a new day.

I traipse back to our bedroom and push open the door, expecting to find Theo in the dark snoring. Instead, I walk straight into a full frontal ambush.

Theo. Shirtless.