Chapter 1 Latent Print
LATENT PRINT
LILA
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the truth, it’s that it hates being caught.
You can be right there—breathing down its neck, fingers grazing the edge—and somehow it still slips away.
Always one step ahead. Always leaving you with more questions than you started with.
Questions like: Why did I think a career in forensic psychology would be glamorous? Or: How many cups of coffee can one overworked professor drink before they start hallucinating? And my personal favorite: Why is Professor Grayson looking at me like I just spit on the Constitution?
Spoiler: I didn’t. I only gently suggested that he would be a great person to help me revisit the case that ruined his legal career.
I mean, he can’t be too shocked, considering I already forced him to relive it when I used it for my PhD thesis less than a year ago.
I assured him I hadn’t chosen the case because of him.
Though, I can see why he might think I did—especially given our history. The few times we interacted before everything got complicated. The things we never talked about again.
I wanted to be better than that. I really did. No one wants to be the student who bulldozes into a new professor’s life, dragging his worst professional failure into the spotlight like some kind of academic hazing ritual.
I wasn’t entirely honest with Professor Grayson, though.
He did play a small part in the reasoning behind my thesis choice.
He’s hated me since.
Not since… you know. The ridiculous chemistry, the flirting, and me very much wanting to die from how disgustingly attracted I was to him.
Since the thesis thing.
The limit to the number of times I’ve caught him looking at me like he wishes he could set my body on fire with his eyeballs does not exist.
Right now, he’s looking at me like that.
And he’s probably internally cursing the entire bloodline of whoever agreed to make me his colleague.
Did I mention my thesis was built around the fact that the forensic evidence used in Peter Mayfair’s conviction was flawed?
Yeah. Maybe this was a bad idea.
Because the one who presented that evidence in court—who tried and failed to keep Peter from being convicted?
Theo.
And while I hadn’t meant for it to be personal, it was. My entire thesis—my proud, overachieving, publishable thesis—basically screamed you screwed up to the one person who tried to get it right.
So, yeah. It pissed him off. And I can’t even blame him.
Secretly—very secretly—if Theo Grayson had a fan club, I’d probably be its president.
Not because of, you know, reasons sexual (though… Okay, fine. Like I said, he’s not not attractive… Have you seen him? He’s like if Adam Driver and a Harvard law syllabus had a very grumpy baby).
But mostly because the man is a walking archive of logic and borderline genius-level intuition. Which, for someone like me, is catnip.
Intellectual catnip.
Just to be clear.
It’s not even because I like him—because I don’t. He’s insufferable. Condescending. The human embodiment of an exasperated sigh wrapped in a well-muscled package.
But he also happens to be the most brilliant legal mind I’ve ever encountered despite his very public shortcomings, and unfortunately for both of us, that makes him useful. Because if anyone can help me untangle the mess at the heart of this case, it’s him.
That’s why I’m currently standing in his office, watching him stare at me like he’s debating whether or not it’s acceptable to throw a shoe at a person.
“No,” he says, flatly.
I blink. “I haven’t even asked you anything yet. Well, at least not what I came to ask.”
“You don’t have to. You have that look.”
I’d probably hurt my hand if I punched him in that infuriatingly pretty face, but that’s never stopped me from wanting to.
“What look?” I really need to learn to school my features.
“The one that says you’re about to ruin my week.” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “So, absolutely not.”
This is going to be harder than I thought.
I take a breath, gearing up for the battle. “Victoria Mayfair was murdered,” I state plainly.
He stares at me, unimpressed. “Yes, I’m aware. It’s been all over the news.”
“But you’re missing the important part.”
“Which is?”
I know this means more to him than he’s willing to admit. He wears detachment like armor, but I can see the cracks. “I got an invitation to stay at the estate over spring break.”
That gets his attention. His posture shifts forward, just slightly. “Why?”
“Because Emily Mayfair is my friend,” I say, then wince. “Which makes the ulterior motive part feel extra shady, since I’m definitely not telling her about it.”
“And what would that be?”
I roll my eyes. “To find out who killed her mother, obviously.”
Theo scrubs a hand over his face like I’ve personally drained the last bit of energy he had left to finish the day.
His features are all sharp lines and sleep deprivation—messy dark hair, a too-serious jaw, and that perpetually furrowed brow that makes him look like he’s permanently stuck in a state of silently judging everyone around him.
“Lila—” his tone softens when he says my name; I’m not sure if it’s because he’s over this conversation or just as haunted as I am by all the ones we never finished.
“I need your help.” I flex my fingers at my sides, fighting the urge to wrap my arms around myself. His office is freezing.
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m asking,” I say flatly.
“I don’t need to. If it involves any combination of you, the Mayfairs, and a murder investigation, then it’s a bad idea.”
I place my hands on his desk and lean in. His dark eyes drop to my mouth for half a second—so fast I almost think I imagined it. But I didn’t. I’d recognize that look anywhere. Intense, charged. That kind that walks the line between wanting to kiss me and wanting to kill this entire conversation.
Desire. Frustration. Maybe both.
“Professor Grayson, listen. I know you hate thinking about the Mayfair family. I know Peter’s case ruined your career. But that’s exactly why you should want to see this through.”
Something dark and searing flashes in his expression. Potentially dangerous in a way that I don’t hate.
Then it’s gone, replaced by the same impassive mask he always wears around me.
It makes me want to push more of his buttons just to see what it takes to get him to really react.
“Peter is dead,” he says. “There’s nothing left to prove.”
“But what if there is?” I counter. “What if Victoria’s death is connected to Henry’s?”
He doesn’t respond, but I can tell he’s considering it.
He leans back, uncrossing his arms. Still skeptical, but not outright dismissing me anymore, which is progress. “I know what you believe, Lila.”
“And I know you believe the same, just fucking admit it already.”
“Even though every major forensic analyst, legal expert, and detective involved in the original case agreed on Peter’s guilt?”
I nod, unbothered.
He shakes his head like he wants to argue more, but he doesn’t. He just eyes me in a way that makes me want to squirm. Then, “You realize this makes you look obsessed, right?”
That word—obsessed—makes something inside me twist.
Because he’s not exactly wrong.
There’s a fine line between passion and obsession. I’ve been walking it for a while now.
Laurel used to tease me for fixating on every cold case I came across, as if each one was personal.
If I’m being honest, since she died, I’ve been terrified that stopping—stopping the search, stopping the movement—means falling apart. Even if all I’m doing is spiraling, at least I’m still moving. So I keep chasing the next thing, pushing forward because I don’t know how to stop.
I feel like I’m running out of time to do something meaningful, to be someone important, to prove my life isn’t for nothing.
Since she died, this is the one thing that’s made the most sense to go after.
And this? This isn’t just any case. It’s not cold, either.
I swallow hard, forcing those thoughts down before they can throw me off track.
Theo is still waiting for an answer, so I settle on, “I don’t care how it makes me look. Come with me.”
He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like I regret every decision that led me to this moment. And then he asks, “You’re serious about this?”
I nod.
He releases the deepest sigh I’ve ever heard, shifting slightly like he needs to physically look away from me to process the absurdity of my request.
“Lila. I have said maybe ten full sentences to you since the school year started. We actively avoid each other in the halls.”
Oh, so he’s acknowledging these things. “Both valid observations.”
“Why would I agree to this?”
That’s a really good question; thank you for asking. I steady myself for what comes next. This is where I have to tread carefully. “Because you still care.”
His expression shutters.
I continue. “The way Victoria was murdered? It’s messy.
Not blood-everywhere messy—personal messy.
She was strangled. That takes time. It’s not impulsive, not distant.
It’s emotional, close-range, face-to-face.
Whoever did it didn’t just want her dead—they wanted her silenced.
Just like Henry. And then they tried to make it look like a break-in, like some random robbery gone wrong.
But drawers were pulled open, not ransacked.
Jewelry was missing, but the expensive stuff was left.
It’s like they panicked halfway through the story they were trying to tell.
If there’s something buried in that house—if Peter really was innocent…
” Like you and I both know he was, I don’t say.
“Then someone in that family’s been keeping the lie alive ever since. But now they’re slipping.”
His expression hardens.
He knows I’m right.
He looks at me like he’s about to cross-examine me. “And what exactly do you expect to find that the police haven’t?”