Chapter 4 Close Quarters
CLOSE QUARTERS
LILA
There’s nothing quite like the experience of getting ready for bed while simultaneously trying to process a closed murder case, an ongoing investigation, and the increasingly absurd reality of being in a fake relationship with a man who, by all indications, would rather be anywhere else in the world than stuck in a room with me.
Oh, and the looming possibility that I might have to share a bed with him.
Love that for me.
I step out of the bathroom, towel drying my hair, already exhausted by the mental gymnastics it’s taking to compartmentalize everything.
The room itself is extravagant in a way that feels almost eerie.
It screams old money with dark wood paneling, a deep green accent wall, and impossibly high ceilings.
The massive four-poster bed is draped in heavy velvet curtains and is so big it could comfortably fit a family of five.
Theo, however, is sitting on the very edge of it like he’s been exiled to the world’s most expensive time-out, staring at his phone with the single-minded intensity of a man trying to locate the nearest exit.
I arch a brow. “Anything interesting?”
He doesn’t even glance up. “Just staring at this picture I took, trying to decide if it’s actually a blood smear or just…” His voice is flat, but I can hear the undercurrent of frustration beneath it.
I stop in front of him, peering down at the screen. “Blood smear or just… what? A paint drip? A weird shadow? An abstract art piece? A sign from the great beyond?”
He rolls his eyes, then finally turns his phone toward me.
I squint at the screen. The image is blurry, but I can make out the faint swipe of something across the painted wall. Uneven. Faintly reddish.
“Definitely blood,” I frown. “The question is whose, and how it ended up here when Victoria was strangled and there wasn’t supposed to be any.
It’s dried into the paint, which means whoever it belongs to had to be around at the time she was murdered.
It narrows the window. Now we just have to narrow the person. ”
For a second he just stares, as if he forgot what he was about to say. Or maybe he remembered something he shouldn’t, judging by the way his eyes don’t quite move fast enough when they finally pull away from me.
He runs a hand through his hair, his knee bouncing slightly, a tell I’ve noticed when he’s thinking hard about something. “May or may not be blood, but I scraped a tiny sample off the wall with a lock pick from my pocket while I was pretending to tie my shoe.”
The fact that he’s casually carrying around a lock pick tells me he’s way more eager to dig into this than he’s letting on. For a guy who spent the entire drive insisting we should tread carefully and follow proper channels, he sure seems ready to force his way into off-limits spaces.
I cringe when he shows me the swab he transferred it over to—rust-colored and faintly tacky—sealed inside a sterile evidence tube. The man didn’t just collect a sample; he brought supplies. Another not-so-subtle tell that he’s way more into this investigation than he wants to admit.
Whatever it is, it’s been there long enough to set into the paint—dried down into the brushstrokes like it belonged there all along. “There was nothing about it in the case file.” I shrug, draping the towel over my arm to stop myself from twisting the ends of it, a nervous habit.
He looks at me appraisingly.
I let out a groan, rubbing my hands over my face. “Why do rich people have to make everything so complicated?”
He presses the button on the side of his phone, the screen going black. “I mean… yeah. But also, how exactly?”
“There are paparazzi camped at the gate like it’s an awards show, not an active crime scene.
Staff keep smiling like they’re auditioning for Downton Abbey: Homicide Edition.
When I went out to grab something from my car earlier, Giles intercepted me at the driveway and insisted on carrying it back himself, scolding me for overstepping household protocol when I said I could manage.
He carried my tote bag like it was the family silver, muttering about standards the whole damn way.
And the family? They seem so unbothered.
Perfectly composed. Like finding out one of your own was murdered is just an inconvenience to be scheduled around brunch.
With the exception of Emily, of course.” I pause, and take a second to gather the rest of my thoughts.
“Not to mention all the ways cases like this always get spun. Glossed over, cleaned up, edited for image. The messier the truth is, the more polished the version they present. And it screws with everything.”
I know how that might sound. And yeah, the truth is, people go missing or get murdered every day, and most of those cases don’t get anything close to this kind of attention.
Especially not when the victims are women or people of color—the urgency just…
isn’t there. The coverage barely exists.
That’s a whole different kind of injustice.
But that’s not what I mean here.
When money and status are in the mix, cases don’t just make headlines, they become full-blown media circuses.
We’re talking documentaries, podcasts, think pieces, Reddit threads with conspiracy theories and red string.
Kathie Durst vanished and it took decades for anyone to look past the privilege long enough to see the truth, and then only because her husband basically confessed on a hot mic.
Martha Moxley’s murder sat cold for twenty-five years before anyone had the guts to charge a Kennedy cousin.
Even when answers do begin to emerge, money has a way of complicating things. Slowing justice, obscuring facts, and reshaping public perception.
“When money’s not involved, violence is usually messier.
Sloppier. People act on impulse. Rage, jealousy, desperation.
The kind of thing that leaves blood on the bedroom wall, a body half-folded in the bathtub, dinner still warm on the stove while someone bleeds out ten feet away.
There’s no clean-up. No plan. Just brutality, in its rawest form.
And no one even bothers to hide it half the time.
But people with money? They plan. They have lawyers, airtight alibis, whether true or not.
When they kill, it looks like a tragic illness.
An accident. Or…” I pause. “Like an intruder snuck in and out without a trace.”
There’s something wary in his eyes now.
I shrug. “I mean, of course there are exceptions to every rule, I’m just speaking generally.”
“Remind me never to piss you off. You do have rich friends, after all.”
“Shut up.” I kick at him half-heartedly, but he dodges easily, then I toss the towel onto a nearby chair before flopping onto the mattress with a dramatic sigh, arms spread wide like I’m preparing for a snow angel.
The sheets are so soft, and despite everything, the mattress is one of the most comfortable things I’ve ever laid on.
He’s quiet for a beat. Then, almost casually, he murmurs, “You’re drawing a line between the people who get ignored and the ones who get turned into spectacle. Between systemic neglect and curated chaos.”
Huh. He gets it.
“Well,” I announce to the ceiling. “We survived day one.”
He looks unimpressed, vaguely irritated. “That remains to be seen.”
I turn my head just enough to squint at him. “Wow. Optimistic.”
“I prefer realistic,” he says, staring at his phone again.
I roll my eyes and let my head fall back against the pillows, inhaling deeply. The scent of fresh linen and whatever overpriced detergent rich people use fills my nose. For the first time all day, my body starts to relax.
Right up until I remember I have absolutely no idea what the sleeping arrangements are. Knowing my luck, I’m about to end up on the world’s oldest and fanciest chaise lounge because there’s no way in hell he fits on that abomination or actually agrees to share this bed with me.
I sneak a glance at Theo. He’s still sitting rigidly at the edge of the bed, and I have the distinct feeling that he’s hoping that if he ignores the situation long enough, it’ll resolve itself.
Unfortunately for him, I have absolutely no plans to make this easy.
Making him uncomfortable is one of my favorite pastimes.
He finally turns to face me and taps the screen of his phone, sighing, then completely changes the subject. “I’m good friends with Professor Ellery. Not sure if you know him.”
I gasp. “You have friends?”
He levels me with a flat stare.
“I’m sorry, I just didn’t have ‘Theo Grayson Has a Social Life’ on my bingo card.”
He glares at me but continues. “He’s a forensic chemist and trace evidence specialist who also teaches at Bellwood.” I’m aware of who Professor Ellery is, but unaware of what he tells me next.
“He has a private lab in the basement of the university,” Theo says, like it’s no big deal.
“Technically, it’s not sanctioned, but the administration tolerates it because it makes the department look cutting-edge.
His research lands them in journals, brings in grant money, and boosts their prestige, so no one asks too many questions.
” He shrugs. “Unofficially, it’s for independent forensic studies.
Officially? It’s where Ellery does shit that makes the university look good.
As long as they don’t look too closely.”
I sense where this is going. “And he moonlights as your personal forensic analyst?”
“He has in the past,” Theo admits. “And my source for info. He consults on active cases without all the red tape of law enforcement labs.”
I sit up, crossing my legs under me.