Page 43 of Take This to Your Grave

Serena: No.

Calla: Interesting.

Calla: Very interesting.

Serena: Otherwise, it was a professional interaction.

Serena: He is… competent.

Calla: There is deeper meaning here. I just don’t know what it is yet.

Serena: I am ending this conversation.

Calla: COWARD

Lila: Update us when your mom proposes to him.

POSITIVE INDICATORS

SERENA

The clock on the bedside table reads 1:14 AM. I’ve been pacing long enough to identify three loose floorboards and one spot near the dresser that creaks even when I avoid it.

I should be asleep.

Instead, the Compliance Department keeps returning to the same facts, testing them from different angles and rejecting every configuration.

I’ve paced the four-yard stretch of floral rug so many times I’m surprised I haven't worn a trench into the subfloor.

The problem isn’t that I’m thinking about Baryn.

The problem is that I can’t seem to reach a conclusion about him.

The bigger problem is that the evidence is becoming annoyingly one-sided. Yes, the guy is a professional interloper who has inserted himself into an active investigation where he absolutely does not belong. Unfortunately, he also has a voice like American Tom Hiddleston (faints). Worse, he’s the first person since Casey disappeared who hasn’t looked at me like I’m a tragic exhibit in the Stillwater Museum of Unsolved Sadness.

The risk-to-reward ratio is currently fluctuating between Total Career Sabotage and Actually Solving the Mystery That Ruined My Life. It’s a coin flip, really.

I consider, for one fleeting and desperate second, going downstairs to wake Marj. I need his room number.

The hour doesn’t concern me. I suspect Marj sleeps with one eye open in case someone in Stillwater does something worth knowing about.

Asking for the room number of an attractive single man at one in the morning is another matter entirely. There is no version of that conversation where Marj simply gives me a number and goes back to bed.

I’d get the room number.

I’d also get follow-up questions, unsolicited advice, and a witness.

I am a coiled spring with nowhere to uncoil. If I don't convert this mental static into kinetic energy, I’m going to vibrate right out of my skin.

I grab my hoodie, slip into the hallway, and head for the stairs.

I’m storming around the corner toward the landing, head down, mentally escalating my options from a brisk walk to a 5K to possibly just running until I reach another state, when I slam into something human-shaped and solid.

“Whoa,” a low voice rumbles.

I stumble back, my sneakers squeaking on the polished wood.