Chapter 3 Visible Patterns
VISIBLE PATTERNS
LILA
There’s something deeply unsettling, and a bit voyeuristic, about stepping into a place where someone was murdered, especially when you’re there to microscopically evaluate anything that might stand out.
It feels as if the walls themselves are holding their breath, waiting for you to rifle through the trash or mercilessly dissect the contents of the medicine cabinet.
Maybe it’s the sad little remains of police tape clinging to the edge of the doorframe.
Maybe it’s the way the chandelier above us casts just a little too much shadow, like even the light doesn’t want to settle here.
Or maybe, it’s the Mayfairs themselves.
Emily is the first to greet us, stepping out before we even have a chance to knock. The front door creaks behind her. If I didn’t already know what she’s been through, I might just think she looks tired. The kind of tiredness you fix with coffee and eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.
But up close, it’s obvious. She’s running on fumes. The shadows under her eyes are bruised-dark, and her brown hair looks like it’s been twisted into the same bun for days, stray wisps sticking out in every direction. Her smile is warm, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt, the sleeves swallowing her hands.
When she hugs me, she feels limp. Boneless, almost. I squeeze her once, gently, before stepping back, and her arms fall to her sides like she’s already too tired to lift them again.
“Thanks for coming,” she murmurs.
“Of course I’m here,” I say, squeezing her arm gently. “You’re stuck with me.”
I don’t tell her that it took an act of Congress to get through the front gates or that we’re lucky to be here at all.
She lets out a quiet laugh, but it’s cut off when she turns to Theo. For a second, I wonder if she recognizes him—if she’s about to say something about his history with her family—but she only extends a polite hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
There’s a haziness in her eyes, like she’s wading through molasses both physically and mentally. Maybe it’s the grief, or maybe it’s whatever she’s taking to dull the edges of it.
Theo nods, eying her hand in a way I can’t quite decipher before shaking it with the same stiff professionalism he treats everything. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She gives a small nod in return, but I notice the way her fingers twitch slightly at her sides, like her body is reacting a second before her mind catches up.
And then we’re stepping into the heart of the house, straight into the center of the shitshow.
It’s suffocating with its excess. The floors are blanketed in thick Persian rugs, the walls lined with portraits of long-dead relatives who look like they’re disgusted by my ripped jeans and Converse, even in the afterlife.
Evelyn Mayfair is waiting in the sitting room, a space that feels both over-decorated and eerily empty.
The light from the chandelier is dulled by dust. She sits perfectly upright in an ornate chair by the window, a string of pearls resting at her collarbone, hands folded on her lap.
Her silver hair is pinned into place without a strand out of line, and her gaze is steady, assessing—but softened at the edges, carrying an inappreciable patience that makes it clear she’s weathered more storms than she deserves.
Even here, she clings to the Mayfair rule of not crumbling in public, though she’s kind enough not to expect the same of anyone else.
The photographs on the mantle tell the rest of the story for her—her husband’s portrait in the barn, her son smiling beside a much younger Emily, a wedding photo with Peter and Victoria that now looks almost cruel in its permanence.
Loss has hollowed the house around her, but Evelyn herself is still here, unbent.
The weight of her composure makes me straighten my posture without thinking about it, despite knowing she’s one of the only members of this family who isn’t off their fucking rocker, and maybe the only one aside from Emily whose presence feels like a safe place to land instead of a silent threat.
I’m sure she has a lot to do with the fact that Emily turned out so well-adjusted. Not sure what happened to everyone else.
“Lila, my dear!” She smiles, standing sweeping toward me with open arms, and the whole place feels warmer.
“I’m so happy you came. You’ll have to excuse the mess.
We’ve been doing a bit of redecorating since before, well…
everything.” She pauses, her expression softening with sadness.
“The painters had just finished the night before, actually. We just… we haven’t quite been able to wrap it all up yet. ”
The first time I met Evelyn, she’d been visiting Emily at Bellwood back when we were still just acquaintances who shared lecture notes and late-night study sessions.
She was polished and graceful, completely out of place in the dingy student common room.
The way she spoke was curious for someone of her stature; like she’d already decided she liked me based solely on the brief rundown Emily had given her about her new roomie.
Just before she left, Evelyn had slipped something into my hand.
Small, neatly wrapped in soft parchment and tied with pale ribbon, like everything she touched had to meet some impossible standard of elegance.
Inside was a tin of loose-leaf tea you’d expect to find in a boutique shop with calligraphy labels and a pretentious price tag.
I’m more of a coffee person. Black. Bitter.
Functional. But I thanked her anyway, and meant it.
She told me then, kind of offhand, that she hadn’t bought it.
Her daughter-in-law, Victoria, had grown the herbs herself in the garden behind the stables, dried them in the sun, and packed them into tins like this one.
There was something weirdly intimate about that—brewing tea from leaves she’d nurtured and cared for.
And maybe even weirder that someone with her money, someone who had people for everything, would bother doing it herself.
Over the years I realized it wasn’t just Evelyn and Victoria. Emily had the same habits. Books with handwritten notes inside, scarves folded in tissue, good luck ribbon pressed into my palm before an exam.
The Mayfair women had a way of saying things without actually saying them.
They embedded their affection into objects—tokens, parcels, little offerings that carried more weight than words ever seemed to.
Each gift was a piece of themselves, wrapped up and passed along, like love was something easier if it was tangible rather than spoken.
Even now, years later, I still have the empty tea tin, and I’m more grateful than ever that I held onto it.
Some might say I’m sentimental.
Laurel would have said it was part of my feral raccoon tendencies to hoard shiny objects.
Both would be correct observations.
I barely manage to return the hug before she steps back, her perceptive eyes flicking to Theo and lighting up with recognition.
“And Theo Grayson. My, my.”
He stiffens beside me so abruptly I wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled something.
I can practically feel the exact moment his entire body decides that being here is a mistake.
We spent a good chunk of the drive discussing how this might be awkward—possibly even a disaster—but that didn’t stop us from coming.
We also did a rapid-fire exchange of everything we could think of people might assume we already know about eachother.
Family basics, favorite true crime podcast, my dead best friend, and the fact that he owns absolutely no curtains, just the raw threat of being seen walking through his living room naked, and thinks that’s normal.
I forgot to mention I’m lactose intolerant, which is probably going to come back to bite me. Mental note: tell him before someone tries to offer us charcuterie and he lovingly shoves a mozzarella ball down my throat.
Those conversations, of course, were sandwiched between my enthusiastic renditions of tragically overplayed mall-punk classics, which I know he secretly enjoyed before he made me turn the radio off.
“Of course I remember you,” she continues, reaching for his hand. “You did your very best for my son, and I want you to know I never blamed you for the outcome. If anything, I appreciate you for the way you stood by his innocence when the rest of the world seemed determined to see him burn.”
Her voice is steady, but her eyes betray her. Regret. Longing. A sadness so heavy it settles over the conversation like a weighted blanket.
Theo looks like a man caught in a riptide, completely unsure whether to swim, float, or just let it take him under. He hesitates, then nods once. “Thank you.”
Evelyn’s gaze flickers between us, and then, just like that, she beams—her entire demeanor shifting on a dime. “And the two of you! What a lovely couple.”
Lovely. Sure. That’s definitely what we are. Nothing says healthy relationship like unresolved trauma and a shared obsession with homicide.
I elbow Theo discreetly, a not-so-gentle reminder that he should probably act like he isn’t being held here against his will.
“We’re very happy,” I say, flashing my best definitely in love smile.
He grunts.
That’s it. Just a grunt.
It’s fine. He’s an ass. It’s part of his charm.
That’s what I’ll tell people if they ask, anyway.
Still, a small, petty part of me sours at the fact that he can’t even pretend to like me. Not ideal, considering we have a whole week of this charade ahead of us. If he doesn’t get his act together, I will be forced to retaliate. Loudly. Probably in public, simply because I know he’d loathe that.
Before Evelyn can comment further, the air in the room shifts, commandeered by the presence of a woman who enters as if she’s just emerged from a three-day spa retreat rather than the aftermath of a violent murder.
Nora Mayfair, Emily’s aunt.