Page 93 of The Evidence of Us

Because if Theo’s leaving fingerprints all over this chapter of my life—smudging the margins, underlining the parts no one else sees—I’m starting to think I might not ever want to clean them off. And the thought of leaving him behind when this is all over?

I hate it.

The end of this week is approaching quicker than I ever anticipated, and now I’m not just frustrated that we are no closer to figuring this out, I’m also kind of sad at the thought of walking away from Theo.

We work in silence for a while, or at least, a silence made of rustling papers, the occasional snap of a binder clip, and the sharp pop of thumbtacks as I start pinning things to the cork board. It’s bigger than I expected, now wedged against the guest room wall beneath the least offensive piece of art.

I still don’t know what we’re supposed to do with all of it when we’re not in the room. Shove it back under the bed? Cram it in the walk-in closet and pray no one opens the door? Here’s to hoping no one notices the murder collage tucked next to the spare linens.

Theo only breaks the quiet to read off lines from the files or to mutter things like “bastard” and “what a fucking douche,” with increasing conviction as he flips through the mess. Occasionally, he leans over to hand me something I’ve missed, his fingers grazing mine in a way that feels borderline criminal and definitely not accidental.

It’s systematic, the way we work. Almost soothing. Like some part of us already knows how to move in sync—the same way we were when we broke into Baryn’s.

“Okay.” I stretch my arms above my head, spine giving a satisfying crack. I reach to place the last photo on the board—a distorted still from one of the compound’s exterior security cameras. It’s a blurry photo of Baryn’s face with no time stamp. The quality’s garbage—pixelated shadows on a washed-out grayscale background. He probably never intended for someone to break into his stuff and print this particular still off for dart-throwing purposes, but here we are.

“We have a motive. We have means. We have… very meh surveillance. But we still don’t have a definitive who. It could be any of them.”

I exhale, frustrated. The picture hangs slightly crooked on the tack, like even it’s unsure if it wants to commit to any solid theory. I nudge it back into place, trying to focus. Trying to think. I’m still leaning heavily toward Baryn. I mean, how terrible would it be to podcast about a crime you committed? But I wouldn’t put it past him—not even a little. His smugness alone feels like probable cause.

Beside me, Theo leans back on his heels, one hand braced on the floor for balance. His eyes are trained on the wall in front of us, willing it to speak. He tracks every photograph, every scribbled note, every red loop, his mind clearly running a thousand simulations, waiting for the right one to spit out the answer. He looks as if he’s been carved into place by the weight of it all.

I tap my pen against the floor. It’s not exactly thinking—more like trying to shake something loose. But we’re stuck with the same half-formed answers, dead ends in disguise.

I’m staring at the twisted braids of the lariat pinned to the board, tracing each overlap and knot, when a thought pushes through the noise in my head. “What if—” Theo pauses what he’s doing to give me his full attention. “You said the person needed to be taller than Victoria. Bigger. I assume the same would be true for Henry, even though he was seated at his desk. It still takes a lot of strength to overpower someone like that. What if the poison was a means to subdue the victim? Weaken them enough that pulling the metaphorical trigger would be easy. Or at least doable.”

His expression shifts into something expectant, a clear invitation to keep going, to follow the thread until it leads somewhere.

“Someone in the middle of a psychotic break wouldn’t be able to plan something this structured. But a person with an established delusional belief system might still fixate on a specific way they want to end someone’s life, and their mind fills in the blanks with whatever steps make it feel possible. It doesn’t have to be logical. It just has to fit the internal story they’ve already committed to.”

I wonder who on this compound I could realistically claim was operating under a delusional belief system, and both Katherine and Nora come to mind almost too easily.

Theo scrubs a hand over his stubble. “I think you’re onto something. Unfortunately, that also expands our suspect list in a way I’m not thrilled about.”

I release a loud sigh. Unfortunately.

“We’re kind of good at this,” I say, a little surprised by how much I mean it. We haven’t cracked anything wide open—yet—but there’s something about the way our minds lock in, the way we push each other’s thoughts forward, that feels like progress. Like momentum. A stubborn cognitive lock that, given time, leads somewhere worth going.

Theo doesn’t miss a beat. “Good partners,” he says quietly.