Chapter 12
CHEMICAL IMBALANCE
LILA
Ifiddle with the ribbon on the basket I awkwardly hauled over here, trying not to drop it.
It’s small but absurdly heavy, Evelyn’s idea of a “relaxation kit.”
She’d heaved it into my waiting arms as we were leaving, insisting it would “lift Katherine’s spirits.” Inside: a lavender-scented candle the size of a toddler’s head, a sachet of bath salts labeled Serenity Now, and a tin of “Sleepytime Elixir” tea that she insisted could knock out a horse.
I’d looked up the brand out of curiosity and found out the set retailed for two hundred and twenty dollars.
For calm.
Theo had insisted that he carry it. I’d refused on principle. Now my arm’s numb and he’s glaring at me with an I-told-you-so look on his face.
Springtime near Bellwood is unreliable at best, freezing one day and mild the next. The cold from yesterday has broken, leaving the air unexpectedly pleasant.
I shift the basket to my other hip as Emily rings the doorbell for the second time.
I think it will be good for Emily and Katherine to spend some time together.
Emily still does her weekly rounds with the family.
Her aunts, her grandmother, even Baryn—though I’m convinced that’s more out of familial obligation than any actual desire to hear him monologue about the benefits of cold plunging or how he dry-scoops beetroot powder now instead of going to therapy.
Regardless, her mom dying didn’t hit pause on any of it. If anything, it probably made the routines feel more vital—something to cling to when everything else went to hell. Their family’s always been strangely close, given the circumstances. But maybe that’s what surviving a shared nightmare does.
I guess when you’ve weathered as much collective trauma as they have, it either pulls you apart or stitches you together tighter.
Maybe a little of both.
Death isn’t a mystery until it’s yours to solve. You can know it’s inevitable and still be blindsided when it happens—especially when it comes fast, messy, and attached to a word like murder.
In the aftermath, people grab for whatever scraps of normal feel within reach. Sometimes that means clinging to the only people who understand the shape of the loss.
There’ve been too many times I’ve wished I had someone who remembered Laurel’s laugh, her strange food quirks, the way she said exactly what she thought and never regretted it for a single second.
I wish I were able to share that space with someone who gets it, a tangible reminder that she was real. That the ache she left behind isn’t mine alone.
I didn’t know Laurel’s family well enough to share any of that with them. They live hours from Bellwood, and she’d been openly relieved to get away when she moved here.
Even after she died, I didn’t reach out. It didn’t feel right, not when Laurel had spent years trying to carve out a life separate from them. Not when I understood all too well what it felt like to need that kind of distance.
Ours had been its own small world. We were each other’s person, in that desperate way people become when they don’t have anyone else. At the time, it felt unshakable. In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the healthiest thing for either of us.
At least I understand the impulse now—the need to hold on to someone, anyone, who makes the world feel less empty. Maybe that’s part of why I said yes to all of this.
I can’t say I’m not grateful for this outing. Theo and I are technically just tagging along, but it gives me the perfect excuse to casually grill the Langleys without looking like a complete lunatic.
Call it multitasking: support Emily, solve a murder, eat a scone or two. Win-win-win.
I’m sure opportunities will arrive to worm my way into conversations with everyone else this week too.
Theo lingers behind us, hands tucked neatly into the pockets of his slate-gray slacks. He looks like someone out of a lifestyle magazine’s “Spring Professor Aesthetic” spread. Completely calm, almost bored. I wonder what he’d do if I threaded my arm through his, so I do.
I love the look of surprise on his face, the way he freezes before schooling his features and leans into the gesture. I tip my chin up at him, in a taunting kind of way. Wiggle my eyebrows for good measure.
He mouths, “behave.”
That does nothing but make me want to do the exact opposite.
His hand closes around the basket handle. A wordless exchange—his raised brow, my stubborn frown—and then it’s gone from my grip, tucked neatly under his arm as if the decision had always been his.
The door jerks open with so much force it rattles the hinges, and Katherine fills the frame, blinking at us with wide, glassy eyes. Her expression lands somewhere between delight and disorientation—like she’s been waiting for us, but forgot why.
Her blonde hair is clipped back in a way that suggests a battle was fought and lost, frizz haloing the victory.
The lavender sweater hanging off one shoulder looks handmade, maybe mid-laundry cycle, and there’s a bright smear of what might be raspberry jam just under her collarbone.
Her pupils are huge. She’s practically vibrating.
“Emily!” she bursts out, too loud, too cheerful. “Oh, you’re here! Wonderful! I was just reorganizing the spice cabinet. Did you know I own five different kinds of paprika?” She laughs, a little breathless. “It’s Wednesday, isn’t it?”
This isn’t the Katherine I know. Grieving or not, she’s usually composed, not this bright-eyed, restless blur who looks like she’s been mainlining espresso.
“Thursday,” Emily says softly, stepping past her into the house. “We moved it this week, remember? You said you had an appointment yesterday.”
“Oh!” Katherine’s frown flickers into a too-bright smile. “Right. Yes. Yesterday. That’s right.” She nods quickly, as if saying it enough times will make it true, already half-distracted by something just above Emily’s shoulder.
Seems to be the Mayfair way: medicate, mask, move on. Not that I can judge. I’ve had my own versions of coping. I just happened to pick different vices. Mine looked more like eighteen-hour workdays, an excessive amount of caffeine, and pretending exhaustion was the same thing as peace.
She leads us into the living room, her slippers whispering against the tile in quick, restless steps. The fireplace is lit, but it’s mostly decorative, the flame too weak to do anything but flicker against the polished surfaces.
“I thought Thomas would be home by now.” She sinks into a velvet armchair that looks more suited for display than comfort. She doesn’t so much settle as she trembles in place, hands fluttering against the armrests. “He said he wouldn’t be long.”
Emily maintains a careful politeness. She seems just as confused by Katherine’s state as I am. “He’s probably just running late.”
I cross the room, sidestepping a pair of loafers poking out from beneath the chaise, and hold out my hand for the basket. Theo hesitates for a beat before passing it over, his expression a mix of curiosity and silent good luck with that.
“For you,” I tell Katherine, setting it on the coffee table in front of her. “Evelyn thought you could use a little pick-me-up.”
Perhaps pick-me-up is the wrong phrase, considering she’s already emanating at a frequency only dogs can hear. Still, the sentiment stands.
Katherine brightens instantly, eyes wide as she leans forward. “Oh! How lovely—how thoughtful! I adore gifts.” Her words tumble out in a rush. “Mother is such a dear. I should call her. Or maybe write her a note—people don’t write notes anymore, do they?”
Theo’s brows lift, and I can practically hear the hum of analysis running behind the calm on his face.
Katherine pats the top of the basket twice, then seems to forget it exists, her attention darting to the window, the fire, then back to us.
The ornate coffee table in front of her—floral inlay and delicately curved legs—looks buried under the kind of clutter that says someone’s given up pretending to care.
There’s a stack of glossy architecture magazines from months back, some unopened mail in tidy little piles, and a few playing cards tossed around. It looks as if someone half-started a game and forgot about it.
“You play Asshole?” Katherine blurts, eyes snapping to me with laser focus that nearly makes me take a step back.
I do not have a response prepared for that. “Sorry?”
“The card game,” Emily says, sliding onto the settee beside her aunt like this is all perfectly normal. “That’s the one we usually play. It’s kind of obscure. Lila, you’d love it. It’s a lawless wasteland of a game.”
Katherine’s already nodding—fast, eager. “Yes! The card game. We used to play it for hours. I was good, you know. Ruthless.” She laughs, a quick burst that borders on manic. “We should play now.”
“I’d probably be terrible at it,” I say, keeping my tone light. “I’m more of a strategy girl.”
“Perfect,” Katherine says, grinning too wide. “That’s exactly how you lose.”
After a long beat, she murmurs, almost to herself, “Thomas is never this late.”
Emily leans across the end table and lays a hand over hers. “Do you want us to wait? We don’t have to start without him.”
Katherine blinks at her, shakes her head too fast, then changes gears. “No—no, that’s fine. I don’t know if I feel up for cards anyway. I didn’t sleep.”
Emily squeezes her hand gently. “Then we’ll just sit. No games. Just visit.”
My eyes catch on a small white bottle tipped on its side near the coaster. Curious, I pick it up, turning it over in my hand.
NeuraLife Focus+. All-natural cognitive support. High-dose ginseng. Guarana. A laundry list of unregulated nonsense that probably doubles as rocket fuel.
I give it a shake. There are like two capsules left inside. “How many of these did you take?” I ask, eying Katherine while handing the bottle to Theo.