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“We also have to consider that the contents of her stomach may have prompted further testing—though, honestly, Victoria spent half her life gardening and handing out herbal teas to anyone within reach, so plant matter showing up in her stomach isn’t exactly a plot twist. For whatever reason, someone requested a follow-up,” I murmur. “Someone didn’t buy the initial report. Potentially, someone who knew what Henry’s unfiled report showed and wanted to dig deeper.”

“You think it was Baryn?” He looks at me, the question lingering.

“Maybe. He definitely had all the details about the poison involved in Henry’s murder that no one else had.” I scribble a note in the margin of the pad. “Or someone else who had doubts. Either way, they were right. I still don’t understand why the poison just to strangle her. Or him. Either of them.”

I lean sideways to peek at what he’s writing, partly out of curiosity, partly because watching him work has become its own weird form of comfort. The way his face scrunches when he’s thinking. The scratch of pen on paper. The calm in his presence, even while everything we’re uncovering is screaming the opposite.

It’s distracting. But it’s also grounding. And maybe I need both.

He doesn’t glance up, just keeps writing, his pen moving in steady, thoughtful strokes. Then, finally, he speaks. “This is a mess.”

My eyes skim the notebook. I want to say, “No shit, Sherlock,” but I go with, “Pretty sure we covered that.”

“It’s just so strange.” He leans back in his chair, tapping the pen lightly against his lip. “It’s personal. High risk. Up close. Violent. It doesn’t line up with the rest of what we’re seeing.”

I frown. “You’re thinking it doesn’t fit the profile?”

“I’m thinking it’s too intimate for someone who’s clearly trying not to leave a trace. Someone careful enough to mess with timelines and security footage, and maybe even tox screens? They don’t strike me as someone who loses control mid-crime, which is what strangulation usually stems from.”

The thought makes my skin prickle. “So what? They’re staging the scene to look personal?”

“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe it’s the signature. The message. Poisoning takes time. Intent. It's not a moment of panic—it’s a choice.”

I stare at the page, where he’s written ligature, same bruising pattern, and underneath that: control circled twice.

“But if they’re smart enough to manipulate evidence, why not choose something cleaner? Faster?” I ask. “Why not just poison them and let that be it?”

Theo is quiet for a long beat. “Maybe that was never the point.”

My thoughts scramble, catching on half-formed possibilities. I glance again at the timeline. There’s something in the pattern we’re missing—I can feel it. Something about the lead-up. The aftermath. The motive behind the method.

But the middle—the moment it happens—still doesn’t make sense.

For a second, all I can do is stare at him—this casually brilliant man who somehow puts up with my overthinking episodes, cuts through the noise with his incisive perspective, and—against all odds—has become the one person I trust to help me make sense of any of this. When everything feels like it’s falling apart, he’s the one looking at the wreckage like it’s just a puzzle. Like it’s solvable.

I glance around the guest room we’ve turned into a DIY crime lab—papers on every surface, empty mugs scattered like landmines, and a half-eaten muffin sitting on a coaster. A still life; Forensic Disaster, with Carbs.

I push a stack of notes aside with the back of my hand, trying not to knock over the evidence pyramid we accidentally built out of sticky notes and coffee-stained papers.

“We need a better system,” I sigh.

“I was hoping we’d organize,” he says. “I brought string.”

“You brought string?” My tone lands somewhere between disbelief and fondness—the sort that creeps in when someone knows you well enough to anticipate your next step.

He shrugs. “And a board.” He says it like he didn’t just admit to premeditated red yarn enthusiasm. “I had a feeling you’d get twitchy if we didn’t properly visualize our descent into conspiracy hell.”

Apparently, he placed an order for it and bribed one of the staff to sneak it up without asking questions while I was in the shower yesterday. “Told her it was for a teaching display,” he says, not even bothering to look sheepish. “Also gave her twenty bucks and a ‘don’t ask’ face.”

I narrow my eyes, pretending to be unimpressed, even as something in me melts a little. He thought of this. Not just the mess or the board—but me, in the middle of it.

“I’m already twitchy.”

“I noticed,” his eyes still scan one of the pages. But the corner of his mouth pulls, just barely. It’s a flicker of something more subdued—and way more dangerous.

Because, honestly? I kind of want to lick that corner of his mouth too. Just to see if it tastes as delicious as it looks.

My stomach flips, traitorous and uninvited. I pretend it’s not happening. I pretend a lot these days.