Page 91

"Would you rather I take up arson?" I mutter, taking the measurement anyway.

Tamsin, for all her shit-talking, is the only person in the world allowed to witness the early stages of one of my more spectacular downward spirals.

Baryn has chosen tonight to test the limits of that arrangement.

His presence down here is not technically permitted.

Or remotely permitted.

There is no active evidence in the room. The teaching collection is cleared for handling, everything with an actual chain of custody is secured elsewhere, and I am authorized to be here. As is Tamsin. Those are the facts I have chosen to prioritize.

The fact that Evan’s professional courtesy did not explicitly extend to two investigative podcasters is considerably less relevant.

I let Baryn and Simon in through the service entrance twenty-three minutes after Evan left, which sounds significantly more clandestine than it felt at the time. There was no skulking involved. I used my own key card, walked through a door I am authorized to access, and brought one unauthorized podcaster with me.

And his equally unauthorized producer.

A technicality I’m sure Evan would find truly meaningful.

There are still rules. Baryn doesn’t touch anything in the teaching collection without permission. He doesn’t photograph anything, record anything, open anything, move anything, or breathe with unnecessary enthusiasm within three feet of my work surface. More importantly, he does not enter the secured evidence room down the hall, where Casey’s case and every item connected to the active investigation are currently stored behind two locks and an access log.

The integrity of an active investigation is not something I’m willing to compromise just because I’ve recently become acquainted with what he looks like naked.

But his physical presence in the room?

I’m no longer entirely sure why I fought so hard to keep him out.

At the time, I’d imagined him hovering over evidence, asking invasive questions, touching things without permission, or narrating my work into a hidden microphone like some sort of true-crime David Attenborough.

In reality, Baryn spends remarkably little time paying attention to the teaching collection.

He brings me coffee. He answers emails. He reads whatever book he’s brought with him until he gets bored, then paces a hole in the floor while inspecting his fingernails. He complains about the temperature. He occasionally looks over my shoulder long enough to ask a question that is irritatingly more intelligent than I want it to be. Once, I caught him reorganizing the takeout menus in the medical examiner’s desk drawer by cuisine.

Currently, Baryn is on the other side of the worktable, doing absolutely nothing.

This is suspicious.

He’s been there for several minutes, leaning back against the counter with his arms folded, watching me work without asking a question, touching something he shouldn’t, or offering a single unsolicited opinion. For Baryn, this constitutes behavior unusual enough to warrant investigation.

I ignore him.

He continues doing nothing.

I rotate the femur beneath the light and reposition my calipers.

Then I glance up and catch the corner of his mouth twitching.

Whatever he’s been waiting to say has reached the stage where keeping it to himself is causing physical discomfort. He has cooked up some bullshit. I am certain of it. Now he’s simply waiting for the optimal moment to unleash it.

The silence stretches until it becomes obvious that this is deliberate. He isn’t waiting for an opportunity to interrupt me. He’s waiting for me to acknowledge that he’s waiting.

Which I refuse to do on principle.

Another thirty seconds passes.

I set down my calipers. “No.”

His eyebrows lift. "You don't even know what I’m going to say."