Chapter 5 Compromised Record #4
"Shit," I hiss, reaching for her, but it's too late.
She lets out a high pitched yelp, jerking her hand up. The room goes still as she holds it in front of her face.
Blood runs from her palm, down her wrist, collecting at her elbow before it drips onto the pristine white tablecloth.
I know what's coming before it happens.
Emily cannot handle blood, and there is no amount of alcohol in the world that will change that fact.
I think of the time she passed out cold in the middle of an anatomy lecture.
Another time, when she fainted at a party after some jackass tried to show her his gnarly skateboard injury. She claimed it was just the tequila, but I knew better.
And right now?
This is so much worse.
Emily takes one look at her bleeding hand, her eyes roll back, and she faints in my arms.
Across the table, Baryn grunts something that’s probably supposed to be one of his asshole jokes, but his words catch halfway through—and then blood starts pouring from his nose.
Not a trickle. A full-on, faucet-open, horror-movie nosebleed.
It’s everywhere in seconds: down his face, onto his shirt, dripping into his wine glass.
He curses, grabs a napkin, and tips his head back.
It could be a change in the air pressure, but there is also a nonzero chance he does cocaine recreationally.
No one else even glances in his direction. Which, honestly, might be the most unsettling part.
That’s when Gerry comes back from the bathroom, humming softly to himself, looking refreshed and blissfully unaware. He freezes the second he sees the table—blood, water, glass shards, and Emily limp in my arms.
“What in God’s name happened here?” He takes in the scene with one sweeping glance, zeroing in on Baryn first. “Don’t tell me you were being an asshole again. Did someone finally punch you?”
Baryn mumbles something through the napkin, and Gerry groans. “Unbelievable. You can’t even bleed gracefully.” He moves closer, crouching beside Emily. “Wait—oh, hell. She saw the blood.”
“Well, hers,” I say, a bit queasy myself since it’s my friend’s blood and not some random stranger’s. “She cut her hand.” I ease Emily’s arm up, turning it so he can see. Blood is already slicking her palm, running in thin lines down her arm and dripping off her elbow.
That’s all he needs. Gerry shifts gears instantly. He’s calm, fully competent. He slides his hands beneath Emily’s shoulders and lowers her gently to the floor. “Alright, give me a towel, a napkin, anything clean. And someone get Giles. Tell him to bring the first aid kit.”
Katherine moves first, shaky but grateful for direction.
Theo pushes a linen napkin toward him, and Gerry presses it to Emily’s palm.
“Small cut,” he says. “It looks worse than it is. Nothing deep.” He glances up at me, his gentle expression steady amid the mess. “She still hates the sight of it, huh?”
“Worse than ever, apparently.” I wince.
He shakes his head. “My favorite delicate disaster.” His tone is soft, affectionate.
He checks her pulse, then smooths a wet strand of hair from her forehead.
“She’ll wake up in a minute, embarrassed as hell.
Someone clear the table before she comes to.
She’ll faint all over again if she sees the mess. ”
Baryn grunts through the napkin, nasally and defensive. “I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
Gerry doesn’t even glance up. “Good for you, champ. Try not to bleed on the linens.” He leans closer to me.
“His nose always does that when he’s stressed.
I’ve seen it a hundred times. These two were quite the pair as kids.
Bear bleeding all over the place, and Emily fainting at the sight of it. ” He chuckles.
At least we can rule out the coke.
Emily stirs just as Giles arrives with the kit.
Gerry stays crouched, still holding pressure on her hand.
“Easy there,” he says. “You’re fine. No emergency, just your body’s dramatic way of reminding us you’re high-maintenance.
” He inclines his head toward her. “Don’t look at your hand, Em.
Focus on the rug. It’s hideous, isn’t it? Perfect distraction.”
That earns a faint groan from her, which makes him brighten. “There she is.” He looks up at the rest of us, all frozen around the table. “See? Nothing to panic over. Everyone can relax.”
He tapes the bandage neatly, dusts off his knees, and stands, surveying the wreckage with a sigh. “Well,” he says dryly, “next time I leave the table, I expect the house to still be standing when I get back.”
And just like that, dinner is over.
It’s late. Too late to be going over crime scene photos, but sleep is out of the question after the shitshow that was dinner.
Theo sits against the headboard. I’m lying beside him, curled on my side, blanket pulled up to my chin.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, quieter than usual, like speaking too loud might wake the ghosts lingering in the walls. Or Emily.
“Thomas and Baryn are the only two on my radar.” Something about the way he says the words feels forced, but I can’t put my finger on why.
I adjust myself slightly to face him. “Why’s that?”
He rubs a hand down his face before shifting his phone toward me. “Aside from the fact that Emily faints at the sight of her own blood?”
I snort. “Emily was never an option.”
Theo turns his head to look at me, expression giving nothing away. “Everyone’s an option, sweetheart,” he mimics Baryn’s little term of endearment for me.
I curl my lip at him. “Don’t call me that.”
The corner of his mouth moves—just barely—but I catch it.
“The method of her murder suggests the killer was much stronger and also probably much taller than Victoria, since she was standing when she was attacked. She was five-eight herself, and every other woman in this family is five foot nothing,” he explains.
I hum, running a hand through my hair as I shift onto my back. “So whoever did it needed the strength and the height.”
“Exactly.”
I let the thought settle. “That narrows it down.”
Theo glances at me. “To two people.”
"Three," I tease. "You’re taller than her."
He snorts. "Right, because I left my ethics lecture, drove to a cursed mansion, and strangled a woman to death with a leather strap. Her husband being someone I represented in court. Solid theory."
I let out a dramatic sigh. “I am full of theories.”
He sets his phone down on the nightstand. “Aren’t we all.”
“But actually, three,” I respond. “Giles.”
“Hmm. Yeah,” he seems unconvinced. “Maybe three. He’s pretty scrawny.”
The conversation drifts away. He shifts beside me, stretching an arm over his head, and my eyes flick to the space between us. We started the week keeping a very careful, very professional distance in this bed. Now, just a day later, I barely notice when our legs brush beneath the sheets.
I wonder if he does.
I should roll over, put space between us, and go to sleep. Instead, I find myself checking out for a second, my mind spinning from the crime scene photos, to Emily’s pale face, to the way grief sat heavy in her eyes even before she drank herself silly.
“You think we’re in over our heads?”
Theo pauses for the length of a breath. Then, “I thought I was in over my head the second you walked through my office door.”
A dry laugh escapes me.
It hits me then, that we’re in the near-constant company of someone who could easily end us without a shred of guilt if they find out the real reason we’re here.
I speak the thought aloud to Theo.
He shifts again, and then, so casually I almost don’t notice, his hand ghosts against mine beneath the blankets.
And stays there.
I glance at him, but his face is impossible to read.
I don’t move my hand. Neither does he.
“We’ll figure it out,” he says finally. “I’ll keep you safe in the meantime.”
And for some reason, despite the absolute mess we’ve walked into, I believe him.
I am half-delirious when I wake in the middle of the night.
It takes a moment for the warmth at my back to register, for the steady breath against my shoulder to pull me fully awake. Then I realize it’s Theo, his body curved around mine.
My brain lights up in ten directions at once, none of them helpful. I freeze, too aware of every point where we’re touching. Moving seems risky. Staying still seems worse. If I wake him, we’ll both have to acknowledge this, and I’m not equipped for that level of emotional exposure before sunrise.
I try to breathe inaudibly, as if subtle respiration will somehow keep the situation from escalating.
My heart does not get the memo. It’s loud enough that I’m convinced he’ll hear it and assume something is wrong, and then he’ll sit up, and then we’ll be trapped in a conversation I will not survive.
I consider every possible exit strategy and discard all of them. Rolling out of his arms would require movement. Movement would require waking him—
“Lila,” his lips move against my neck, the single word pulling me out of my mental freefall.
Then he nuzzles me, and my brain hops right back off the cliff again. What is happening?
A gasp sneaks up my throat, barely constrained, when he pulls me in until we’re flush. His hold is solid, confident, and my brain has no file folder for whatever this is.
He hums in my ear, then says, “Fuck, that sound you just made. How can I make you do it again?”
His fingers slip just beneath the band of my pajama pants, and the gasp it drags out of me makes him grind out, “Yeah, I think that’ll do it.”
“Theo, what are you—”
His fingers skim over my pubic bone and I find I don’t have access to language at the moment.
“Can I touch you, Lila?”
My body is screaming yes, please, for the love of god. My brain is doing nothing helpful, just yelling back, how the fuck did we get here?
He nips at my earlobe. “Don’t overthink it. Let me make you feel good.”
Against every shred of better judgment I have left, I nod.
Enthusiastically.
I deserve this.