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She takes the can, her hand shaking. She looks at me, and her eyes are full of that shimmering, liquid guilt that I’ve come to recognize as her default setting whenever she isn't dissecting a crime scene or pondering over lab results.

"I’m so sorry," she whispers.

I pull a chair over from the desk and sit down facing her and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "Listen to me. The plan was already a shot in the dark. Who knows what he’d have told us, if anything at all? And it’s not like the investigation is ruined, just on pause for the night. You’re sick. It's a thing that happens to humans.”

I wait until she rolls her eyes.

"And in case you've forgotten, you are human."

I’m lying through my teeth. To me, she’s never felt particularly human. Humans are predictable, messy, and easy to read. She’s something else. She somehow ended up with more than her fair share of everything. Beauty. Brains. Competence. It's an unfair distribution of resources. If she told me right now she was an advanced AI sent to ruin my life, I’d probably just ask her where she was manufactured.

I find myself wondering where the hidden seams in her skin are. Which, admittedly, is a dangerous train of thought to board.

"We can head home," she says, her jaw setting in that stubborn line I’m starting to crave. "I feel better. Really. Give me twenty minutes and I can definitely manage the two hours back home.”

I look at her. I look at the way she’s gripping that ginger ale like a life raft, and the way her eyelids are still heavy with the kind of exhaustion that sleep won't fix. "You aren't going anywhere.”

"Baryn—"

"No. Motion denied. New plan." I stand up and grab the remote from the nightstand. "You’re staying in that bed. You’re going to eat exactly three crackers. Wait and see if they come back up. And you aren't allowed to leave this room until you watch my favorite movie with me."

She blinks, confused by the sudden shift. "Your favorite movie? Now?”

"I want you to stay horizontal so I don't have to carry your unconscious body through the lobby like a sack of grain," I counter. "Besides, it’s a masterpiece. It’ll take your mind off your miserable stomach."

She sighs, a long, shaky exhale that tells me she’s losing the will to fight.

"Fine. What is it? If it's three hours of explosions and men communicating exclusively through grunts, I'm puking on your shoes."

"Please. Give me some credit." I navigate the laggy hotel TV menu until I find the streaming app. "It’s Zodiac. Fincher’s 2007 cut."

Serena looks at the screen, then back at me. A tiny, mischievous spark returns to her eyes. "You’re joking.”

"What? It’s a perfect film. The pacing, the obsession, the way the color palette shifts to match the decades⁠—"

"It’s my favorite movie too, Baryn," she interrupts.

I freeze, my finger governing over the 'Play' button. "Seriously?"

"I’ve seen it probably fifty times," she says, a small smile finally tugging at the corner of her mouth. "It's the only movie that understands what the work actually feels like. The endless revisiting. The second-guessing. The way one tiny detail can keep you awake for weeks because you know it means something, even if you can't prove it yet. The way it ruins your life because you can't stop looking at the handwriting. Or the ossification centers, in my case."

I sit back down on the edge of the bed. I’m close enough now that I can smell the ginger in her drink and the faint, sweet scent of her shampoo.

"Most people hate the ending," I say. "They want the handcuffs. They want the big reveal."

"Most people are wrong," she says, her voice getting stronger. "The ending is the most honest part. Sometimes you can estimate the age, the sex, the ancestry, the old fractures, the healed injuries... and still never learn what you actually needed to know. Sometimes Arthur Leigh Allen dies before you can prove any of it and you’re left with a basement full of files and a life that doesn't fit anymore."

I can't remember the last time smiling felt this effortless. "Philosophical disagreement, then. I think Graysmith was right. I think the circumstantial evidence was enough to bury Leigh Allen ten times over."

"Oh, please," she scoffs, leaning into the pillow. "It was all confirmation bias. He wanted it to be Allen so badly he stopped seeing the holes in his own logic. Every new piece of evidence had to fit the story he'd already decided was true. Sound familiar?"

I chuckle, a low sound that feels warm in my chest. "Touché."

I hit play. The opening notes fill the room, and the light of the TV washes over us.

For the next two hours, the hotel room disappears. The stomach flu, the missed interview, the looming shadow of endless possibilities—it all fades into the background. It’s just us. We’re a two-person jury, dissecting every frame. She nitpicks the forensic details; I argue that good detectives sometimes have to trust their instincts.

At one point, she falls quiet. I look over and see her head has drifted toward my shoulder. She isn't asleep, but she’s close. She’s relaxed. The tension that she usually carries has nearly disintegrated.