6. Theo
6
Theo
I t doesn’t matter how many days pass, I keep thinking back to Selene. That was the best date I have ever been on.
Hands down.
Even now the memory of Selene’s laugh and the warmth of her lips on mine, the way she looked at me like she saw me—it lingers, settling into my bones.
I wish we hadn’t been drinking. Not because I regret anything, but because I would’ve asked her to stay. Not just for the night—really stay. More than kissing, more than the tension humming between us. I wanted to fall asleep with her tangled up in my sheets, wake up to her stealing my coffee, and watch the sunrise with her wrapped up in one of my hoodies.
But I’d played it safe. I know I had done the right thing, driving her home instead of making excuses to keep her in my arms. Now I have to sit with the ache of it, the way I can still feel her against me, the way I know one taste wasn’t enough.
I needed to talk to Mo about it.
She has always been the first person I tell everything to, the one who knew me better than anyone. But she’s been flaking on me for days now—dodging my calls, bailing on plans, always coming up with some half-assed excuse. I want to tell her about Selene, about how good it felt to finally be with someone who made me feel like I didn’t have to try so hard. But every time I reached out, an excuse or obstacle got in the way.
And then there was Bennett.
I’d driven past Mo’s house twice this week and both times, his motorcycle was parked outside. He’d been lingering. Hanging around too much. And I wasn’t stupid—I knew what that usually meant.
Mo was secretly hooking up with him.
And honestly? I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.
I mean, I want her to be happy. But Bennett? He isn’t bad , but he isn’t exactly an open book either. He is new to town and isn’t even planning on staying for longer than getting his article, or whatever written. Mo has been through enough—she doesn’t need some complicated, broody situation making her life harder.
And sneaking around? That’s what bothers me most. Why hide it? Why not just tell me?
I don’t like secrets.
So when my phone buzzes and I see Mo’s name pop up, I brace myself for whatever excuse she’s about to throw my way.
Mo: I’m on my way over, also bringing company, we need to talk.
Well, that’s cryptic and not at all what I was expecting.
Me: I’m leaving the cafe now.
Her message is cryptic. Not the usual Hey, I need a favor or Let’s grab food. It stirs an unease I can’t quite explain.
My house isn’t far, only a fifteen-minute walk, so I take my time, letting the fresh air clear my head. The scenery helps a little—old brick buildings, tree-lined streets, and the quiet hum of Shadow Grove in the late afternoon. But the unease still lingers, curling low in my stomach.
By the time I reach my place, Mo’s car is already in the driveway. Of course, she let herself in. Mo and I have been best friends since our preteens so it makes sense that we have keys to the other’s place.
When I step inside, it’s quiet. I don’t hear music or the usual sounds of her pacing back and forth on the hardwood. Instead, there’s only the faint bubbling of the coffee pot in the kitchen, the scent of freshly brewed dark roast drifting through the air.
That’s not normal.
Mo only brews coffee when she needs a stronger jolt than tea—when sleep’s impossible or a heavy worry weighs on her.
I round the corner into the kitchen and find her standing with her back to the counter, arms crossed, watching the coffee drip into the pot like it holds all the answers.
What does surprise me is seeing Bennett at the kitchen island, leaning forward with his hands clasped like he’s waiting for something. The two speak in low tones but when they see me step in the room they immediately stop.
“I didn’t realize you were bringing him over, Mo,” I keep my tone light, but I watch them carefully.
Mo exhales, finally moving to pour herself a cup of coffee, but she doesn’t meet my eyes.
I frown. Okay. What is going on here?
“Do either of you care to let me know what’s going on?” I ask, as no one answers me. “What’s with the cryptic text message?”
Mo hesitates, glancing at Bennett like she’s silently weighing a decision. The tension in the room is palpable. Mo won’t meet my eyes, and Bennett sits there like he belongs in my kitchen, his expression unreadable. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s not here for small talk. I position myself strategically close to the counter where a knife block is for a weapon if needed and with a clear view of an exit if needed. Just in case.
Mo sighs heavily gripping her coffee mug like it might be an anchor for her. “Theo,” she hesitates before continuing. “This is going to be a lot to take in, and I’m not sure how to say it.”
A chill runs down my spine at her words. “Okay…” I say slowly, crossing my arms. “Does it have anything to do with the elephant in the room?” I ask, nodding my head to indicate Bennett sitting in front of her. He’s not exactly an elephant, but he has a large presence you can’t ignore. Like he could take me out if he wanted to, and I’d never see it coming.
Bennett looks over at me with an unreadable expression as he puts his elbows on the counter and steeples his fingers. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?” he asks, his voice measured, calm.
Too calm.
I force a dry chuckle, even though my gut tells me I won’t like either. “Oh goodie, I have a choice. Always the bad news first.”
His next words hit me like a sledgehammer.
“Your parents were murdered.”
The room spins, what ?
Bennett keeps going, his voice flat and matter-of-fact, somehow sounding like it’s coming at me through a tunnel. “Technically, your dad was, but your mom died because he was poisoned and he was the one driving. From what I read you almost died too.” He says that last part as he gestures to the scar through my right eyebrow.
My world tilts, the words hitting me like a physical blow. My entire body feels like it has been sucked into a vortex—weightless, breathless, and spinning. A dull buzzing fills my ears, drowning out everything else.
That’s not right.
The thought stumbles through my mind, sluggish and foggy. My parents died in a car accident. I was there. I remember.
Black ice on the road as we were on a switchback. The car spinning out of control, and Mom screaming.
Or… had she been screaming before we hit the ice?
The memory twists, warping now, edges fraying and slipping away as Bennett’s words carved a crack through the story I’d told myself for years.
I blink hard, trying to ground myself. When my senses return, Mo is watching me carefully. Her hands are wrapped around her mug, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. She’s speaking, but her voice comes through in fragments, muffled by the roaring in my head.
Bennett doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. His intense gaze pinning me in place. “Theo,” he says, his voice steady and deliberate. “I know this is a lot, but you need to hear it.”
I inhale sharply, trying to steady myself. My voice comes out hoarse as I manage a joke, “If that’s the bad news, then what’s the good news?”
He hesitates for a moment. For the first time, his expression shifts—like he’s searching for the right way to say it. Then, finally, he sighs. “The good news is… we’re first cousins.”
I blink at him, certain I didn’t hear him correctly. “Cousins,” I repeat, the word sounding foreign on my tongue.
Mo, who has been uncharacteristically silent, mutters, “Told you this was going to be a lot.”
I let out a breath, trying to piece this together. My parents were murdered. Bennett—this guy I just met—is family. How though? My dad’s only sibling was his twin, and he died before we were born.
I stare between the two of them, my thoughts racing. Murdered parents. A long-lost cousin. “You’re joking,” I say weakly, though I know from the weight of Bennett’s gaze that he isn’t.
The silence stretches between us, heavy, suffocating.
Finally, I exhale sharply, dragging a hand through my hair. “Maybe we should start from the beginning?”
Mo doesn’t answer right away. Then, with a sigh, she abandons her coffee and makes a beeline over to my liquor cabinet. Without a word, she pulls out a bottle of whiskey and three glasses.
I let out a weak laugh. “Mo, why didn’t we start with this? I feel like ‘your parents were murdered’ should have been the cue to break out the alcohol.”
Mo just gives me a look of equal parts pity and exasperation, “Trust me,” she says as she pours us all drinks, “You’re going to need it.”
She passes one to me and the other to Bennett before she sits on the stool beside him. The three of us sit in a tense, fragile silence for a moment, the air heavy with unsaid things.
Finally, Bennett clears his throat and leans forward, “I’ll try to make this as clear as I can,” he pauses. “But there is a lot to unpack so bear with me.”
Bennett launches into everything that leads us up to this point and it’s as though I’ve stepped into someone else’s life, a life I can’t quite recognize as my own.
“I’d always believed my adoptive mother was my biological one—until earlier this year. While cleaning out her things after she passed, I found a folder with my name on it, tucked away in a locked drawer.”
I lean forward, gripping my glass like it’s a lifeline, even though the tremor in my hand betrays me. It’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the present, stopping me from losing myself in the past, in the memories of my parents, of everything I’ve lost.
“Inside was everything,” Bennett said, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Adoption papers, old photos, even a DNA kit she must’ve ordered without telling me. I guess she did it at some point without me knowing.”
“So, she did the DNA thing? What did it say?” I asked my voice hoarse, still gripping my glass like a lifeline. My heart is pounding too fast. Too loud.
Bennett nodded. “She did the DNA thing and even got a message back from someone. My uncle, your dad, Theo.”
The words hit me like a physical blow.
“I emailed the account linked to his results,” Bennett continued. “I didn’t hear back. After a week of waiting, I did some digging and found his obituary.”
A rush of coldness spreads through me. That’s when I first felt it—the pull of a darker force, a presence that didn’t make sense. My chest tightens, a mix of old grief and confusion surging through me.
“I thought it was a strange coincidence,” Bennett said, his voice steady but edged with a sharp undertone. “An email sent, then a death days later? It didn’t sit right.”
“What did you do about it?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. My head’s spinning, trying to keep up with what Bennett is telling me, but the pieces just aren’t fitting together. What am I missing?
“What I do best,” Bennett said, his lips curling into a grim smile. “I investigated.”
He explains how he dug into the police reports surrounding my parents’ deaths. On the surface, it seemed straightforward—bad weather, black ice, a tragic accident. But Bennett wasn’t satisfied.
“If anyone had read the autopsy report carefully, they would’ve seen something odd,” he said. “Your father had traces of cyanide in his system. It’s not uncommon, but not untraceable. I’m still working to identify where it came from.”
The room suddenly feels colder, like a draft slipped in through the cracks in the walls.
“That’s not all,” Bennett added, his expression darkening. “When I hit a dead end with your parent’s death, I went back to my original search—trying to find my biological family. That’s when I uncovered another death. My biological father.”
Mo poured herself another drink, her hands shaking slightly. The clink of the bottle against the glass is the only sound for a long moment, the tension in the air suffocating.
“What happened to him?” I asked, my voice barely audible.
“Officially?” Bennett said. “He died in a skiing accident. It was his honeymoon, and people assumed he was drunk or hungover and made a mistake on the slopes. But the autopsy…” He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.
“He also ingested cyanide?” I guess.
He nods. “You guessed it.”
A sick feeling churned in my stomach. This wasn’t just about my family. This was bigger. “So, what are you saying? What does this even mean?” I ask.
Bennett exchanges a glance with Mo, who nods.
“When I realized there was a pattern, I came here,” he says. “Shadow Grove seemed to be the common denominator. Your parents, my parents, and even your uncle Gabe—”
“What about Uncle Gabe?” I interrupt, my heart racing, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
Bennett sighs. “I wasn’t sure at first, but when I found out he’d died recently too… I checked his records. He had cyanide in his system as well.”
My grip on the glass tightened. “So, what? Someone’s targeting our family?”
Bennett’s gaze hardened. “That’s one possibility. I haven’t looked into any other deaths outside what I discovered about our family. There could be more.”
The weight of his words press down on me, leaving me feeling like I am drowning. My entire life—everything I thought I knew—feels like it is slipping through my fingers.
Mo, ever practical, breaks the silence. “What’s next?” she asks, her voice steady but laced with determination.
Bennett looks at me, his eyes piercing. “What’s next is we figure out who’s behind this… and why.”
The finality in his tone sends a shiver down my spine. The world I knew is gone, replaced by one that is darker, more dangerous. And the worst part? I am not even sure if I am ready for the truth.