Chapter 9
ENTRY AND EXIT POINT
LILA
Emily left shortly after we finished, off to a therapy appointment.
I should be glad. She needs it. After last night, it’s pretty clear she’s barely holding it together. But also—selfishly—I don’t love being here without her.
She’d been seemingly fine while we were out riding, but once we finished up, it was like her weariness had come back with her.
We had a quick cup of coffee before she left, sitting at the kitchen island.
She seemed to not quite be able to settle in her own skin, which is a feeling I know all too well.
She’s been filling her days with anything that keeps her mind occupied, but says riding is the only thing that truly stifles it.
Personally, I think it probably made things worse, at least in this instance, considering she was also nursing a brutal hangover.
But I just nodded along, because what was I supposed to say?
“Actually, you look like you might keel over mid-sentence, and I’m starting to wonder if last night’s wine was laced with something stronger than sulfites? ”
Didn’t quite roll off the tongue.
Maybe it was just the hangover. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was the questionable wisdom of chasing anti-anxiety meds with a bottle of overpriced red. Or—more likely—it was all of the above, shaken, stirred, and served with a side of emotional collapse.
So I encouraged her to go. And now I’m here—with her family, without her buffer.
Plus Theo, who I haven’t seen since his little text performance not long ago. And not since the dream—not that he knows about that.
I’ve been pretending it didn’t get under my skin, but the truth is, it did. Now I don’t know if I can act normal when I see him, or if we’ve unwittingly crossed into some new, undefined territory I didn’t agree to.
The scarier part? I feel these wanton butterflies at the thought of seeing him. Which is absurd. Not nerves, exactly. Just this restless anticipation I can’t quite name—and definitely don’t want to examine too closely.
I wander the halls a bit longer than necessary, letting the chill bleed out of my bones, delaying the inevitable.
But eventually, my aimless pacing spits me out into the morning room where Theo, to my surprise, is already well on his way to pulling off the performance of a lifetime, feeding Evelyn a line of intellectual nonsense with a polished charm that could sell sand in a desert.
She’s practically leaning across the table, hanging on to every word as he spreads butter onto his toast. He’s mid-sentence when I walk in, and Evelyn looks utterly enraptured.
He flashes her a polite, almost bashful smile, and I catch just enough of it to realize I’ve likely interrupted some kind of performance.
I hesitate at the edge of the room, debating whether I want to insert myself into whatever show he’s decided to stage this morning. But before I can overthink it into oblivion, he looks up, catches my eye, and—mid-sentence—reaches for the empty teacup in front of the chair beside him.
He fills the cup, then reaches for the glass honey pot and drizzles in just enough with the tiny silver dipper to make it exactly how I like it. No flourish. No comment. Like he’s done it an inordinate amount of times before.
He’s only ever seen me make tea maybe twice that I can recall. Both instances were faculty meetings, and one of those ended with a fire drill. But of course he remembers. He always does. The details most people miss. The ones that make it impossible not to feel seen, even when you don’t want to be.
Then he slides it an inch toward the space I haven’t even claimed yet and returns to his monologue about acquisition ethics and museum donations without missing a beat.
It’s small. Barely a gesture. But I feel it anyway.
The invitation. The familiarity. The infuriating intimacy of someone knowing how you take your tea and offering it like a secret between conspirators.
And maybe it’s the lighting or maybe it’s just residual sleep deprivation but there’s something about those rolled sleeves, the way they make his forearms look unfairly solid, and the way he leans in when he talks that feels entirely unnecessary.
It’s a strange kind of thrill, being the sole focus of that steady, deliberate attention, and I vaguely wonder if everyone feels it—or if it’s just me.
My stomach does something unacceptable.
I take the seat.
“I’ve always been fascinated by the role of prominent families in shaping legal and historical events,” Theo says smoothly, as if he did not just make that up on the spot.
“It’s remarkable how dynasties like the Mayfairs leave an imprint on law, policy, and even public perception. I’m actually writing a book about it.”
I say nothing. I did not know that.
Probably because he’s lying through his teeth.
Evelyn beams, absolutely charmed. “Oh, I couldn’t agree more, dear. History has a way of being written by those who hold power.”
Theo nods, like this is a casual chat and not a carefully crafted ploy. “Which is why I’m researching the impact of family legacies on regional law and governance.”
I sip my coffee to hide my near-laugh. Researching is a generous word for digging around for murder evidence, but hey—whatever works.
Evelyn’s eyes light up. “How nice! And what have you found so far?”
“I’ve been researching several areas, but with the Mayfairs being so close to home, I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been particularly intrigued by your family’s history,” Theo says smoothly.
“It’s fascinating, really, how the estate holdings shifted in the late nineties.
I came across a brief mention of a charitable foundation that appeared and dissolved within three years, right around the same time several properties were transferred through shell companies.
The timing coincides with what looks like a private financial settlement—sealed, of course—but the pattern’s unusual.
It’s the sort of thing you usually see when a family is trying to manage rumors about hidden assets. ”
Theo studies her for a moment, then leans back, casual. “I’d love to cross-reference some of my findings with original documents—estate records, legal filings, anything that might help me trace how the Mayfair influence evolved over time.”
I expect Evelyn to be affronted, or at least suspicious. Instead, she seems intrigued.
He is smooth. So smooth. I almost roll my eyes at the easy way he can read a person.
“You must have heard some of the nonsense people say about Henry. The rumors became so dramatic they stopped sounding human.” She waves a hand. “Secret archives, hidden rooms, the infamous ‘lost devices’ he was supposed to be hoarding.”
Theo tilts his head, just curious enough. “Lost devices?”
“Oh, you know the type. The rich get bored and invent myths. My favorite was the orrery.” Evelyn huffs out an amused breath.
“A supposedly priceless one he hid from museums. Sixteen million dollars, if the whispers were to be believed. Some collectors swore it existed. Others said it was a ghost story someone started at a charity auction.”
She shrugs. “People latch onto anything glamorous if a wealthy recluse is attached to it. None of it meant anything.”
Theo hums. “Whether it meant anything or not, it’s worth noting. Readers expect the folklore along with the facts.”
“Well,” Evelyn says after a beat, a glint of interest flickering behind her polite smile, “if you’re sincerely interested in including the Mayfairs, you simply must take a look at the family archives.
” She waves a hand like it’s nothing. “They go back generations—letters, wills, ledgers. I imagine you’d find quite a lot to satisfy your curiosity. ”
Theo feigns surprise, as if this wasn’t his goal the entire time. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Oh, nonsense. If you’re writing a book, it would be a crime not to let you see them.”
The irony of that statement nearly makes me choke on my drink.
“Besides,” she says with a dismissive flap of her napkin. “You strike me as a young man who’d find the truth one way or another. I’d rather it come from the source.”
She reaches into her cardigan pocket and pulls out a key ring, flipping through them until she lands on a small, antique-looking key. She wrestles it off the ring, then turns it between her fingers before setting it on the table in front of Theo.
“Victoria was the last one to go through them,” Evelyn says, almost absentmindedly.
“She was the only one with a key besides me. I gave her Henry’s copy after—well.
” She pauses, smoothing the napkin in her lap.
“She had a habit of locking herself away when she was fixated on something. Rest her soul.”
I glance at Theo, then back to Evelyn. “Fixated?”
She exhales softly, the sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh.
“I was telling Theo before you arrived, dear. She was obsessed with our family tree. Always trying to track where we came from, how we got here. It was her little pet project, she called it, piecing together things none of the rest of us cared much about. She used to say she was curating our legacy. Preparing for the day some poor soul decided to write the definitive Mayfair biography.”
Her eyes glaze over with something far away. Sadness, maybe, or an ache that comes from remembering things you wish you could forget.
“The archives are just down the hall past the study,” she says after a small pause, lighter now, like she’s returned to the version of herself she prefers people to see. “Some things are quite old, so be gentle with the aged documents.”
Theo presses a hand to his chest, looking every bit the picture of sincerity despite the utter bullshit that just came out of his mouth. “Of course. I’m honored to be trusted with something so invaluable.”
I shake my head as we stand from the table. The sheer audacity of this man.