Chapter 13
HOOFPRINT
LILA
The second we step off the Langley’s porch, I exhale, feeling like I’ve been holding my breath for an hour—maybe longer. The air outside’s heavy, like it’s thinking about raining again—but that’s nothing compared to the weight sitting on my chest since we stepped through the front door.
Theo falls into step beside me, wordlessly at first. Then he casually reaches over and threads his fingers through mine. The gesture is so seamless, so un-Theo-like. I glance at him, confused, but he’s already looking ahead, face calm, masked as ever.
Maybe he’s trying to taunt me the way I taunt him, but he’s just too grumpy to fully commit.
He gives my hand a small squeeze. Just trust me, it says.
So I do. I guess it makes sense. Anyone could see us.
So I let him hold on. Let myself lean into the steady rhythm of our footsteps. We don’t speak. We just keep walking, hand in hand, like we’ve done this a hundred times before. Like we’re just another couple leaving a perfectly normal visit with a perfectly normal family.
I glance over my shoulder. Katherine’s house is already being half-swallowed by the trees out front, their branches heavy with new blooms, like spring is trying to pretend things aren't falling apart inside. Emily stayed behind to “tidy up,” which, let’s be honest, is code for I don’t trust Aunt Kat not to set something on fire or wander into the koi pond out back while Thomas is off doing god knows what.
Honestly, I can’t believe he left her like that at all. The woman is coming apart at the seams.
Theo rubs his free hand over his scruff, and I can tell he’s been chewing on something. He’s quiet in that intentional way he gets when he’s trying to figure out how to say something without sending me into a spiral.
I wait.
He glances at me sideways, then back at the road ahead. “So. While I was in the kitchen boiling water for tea—”
My stomach dips. “Uh-huh.”
“I opened the drawer next to the stove looking for spoons.” His tone says that’s not remotely what he was doing. “Found… something else instead.”
I stop walking. “Theo. I’m gonna need you to spit it out, my guy.”
He stops too but doesn’t let go of my hand. His thumb rubs against mine, casual, distracting. “It was in the bottom of the drawer, tucked under some old receipts. I almost missed it.”
I glance at him. “Missed what?”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a length of braided leather. The moment I see it, my stomach twists. “Theo, what—”
“It’s a lariat,” he says. “Braided, worn smooth at the ends. Same diameter as—”
“Stop,” I cut in, pulse hammering.
He hesitates.
“Theo,” I hiss, “that could be the murder weapon. For fuck’s sake, why are you touching it?!”
He gives me a look that’s maddeningly unbothered. “It was in a drawer full of takeout menus. I doubt anyone’s going to be dusting for prints.”
“They will if we have to turn it in!” I whisper-shout. “Why would it even be there? How fucking brazen?”
He shrugs slightly, still studying the thing like it’s a puzzle. “No idea. But I thought you should see it.”
I glance around the walkway, like someone might have followed us out. “Put it away,” I snap under my breath. “Please.”
He slides it back into his pocket with an infuriating level of calm, as if he hasn’t just been holding potential evidence in his hand.
I press my lips together.
We start walking again, slower this time. My thoughts swirl.
Theo nudges me with his elbow, gentle. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say automatically, though the word tastes stale after that shit show.
But my brain’s already sprinting ahead without me. The braided leather, the exact width and pattern of the ligature marks. We’d never known what was used, only that it left distinct impressions. Seeing it now clicks everything into place in the worst possible way.
I’m suddenly even more glad Thomas wasn’t home. What a stroke of freaking luck.
Thomas had it. He hid it. In a kitchen drawer, of all places, under takeout menus and old receipts like a fucking misplaced spatula.
I feel more unsettled by it the longer I linger on it. The weapon wasn’t lost or disposed of; it was right there in plain sight, in his house. Which means he either wanted to keep it close or couldn’t let it go. Either option makes me want to throw up.
That fucker.
He’s always had that unnerving calm about him; a detached, too-steady demeanor you read about in case studies. All he’d need is one more body to fit the diagnostic profile of an actual serial killer. Unless there already are others I don’t know about.
We're halfway down the sidewalk when a sound drifts over from the neighboring yard—an odd mix of bleating and… someone humming what might be the Star Wars theme?
It’s just strange enough to stop us both in our tracks, cutting through the mess of half-formed theories about to tumble out.
We round the hedge and come face-to-face with Nora Mayfair, in all her athletic glory.
Her hair is scraped into an updo so severe it could deflect bullets; I can’t tell if it’s the ponytail or the Botox keeping her forehead motionless, but either way, not a single muscle twitches.
Around her, havoc reigns in the form of three tiny goats. One perched precariously on her shoulder like a vainglorious little mountain king, one bleating near her ankle as if issuing a complaint, and the third attempting to headbutt a decorative garden stone into submission.
“Oh look who it is!” Nora trills, balancing in something approximating a warrior pose while the goat on her shoulder hops down and makes a beeline for Theo.
“Lila! And the boyfriend.” Nora’s gaze trails over Theo, unhurried and obvious enough that even I feel it.
Her eyes trail down his torso, over the rolled sleeves, and back up again with a look on her face that’s all mischief.
I don’t miss the way his jaw clenches—or the way something in me does, too.
Who could blame her? His forearms are… a problem.
Theo gives her a polite wave, and I try to match his diplomatic energy instead of the unfiltered what is happening here on my face.
“Goat yoga,” Nora says, as if this explains everything. “It’s grounding. Also, apparently, amazing for your glutes.” She spins around to present the evidence, pivoting like she’s defending a thesis on her own ass.
“I’ll take your word for it,” I say, inching a little farther from the tiny goat currently chewing on the edge of her mat. I want to think it’s cute, but… the eyes. Wide and glassy, pupils horizontal.
Seemingly buffering a demonic possession.
I fight off a full body shudder.
Goat eyeballs are one of the only things that can thoroughly freak me right the fuck out.
“Come, join me!” she chirps, flinging one arm in a dramatic arc. “You have to meet Biscotti. He’s the sassiest.”
As if summoned, one of the goats sneezes violently, then hops up onto a nearby foam block.
“We really should be going,” I start, but she tuts and wags a perfectly manicured finger at me.
“Lila, you’re in a relationship now. You need couple rituals. Shared activities. Goat yoga is deeply bonding.”
“I’m not sure physical trauma is my love language,” I watch as one of the tiny beasts headbutts her in the shin repeatedly.
Theo smirks. “Are you sure about that?”
I shoot him a warning look, dying a little inside when I remember all the things Emily shared about my sex life (or lack there of) the other night.
I’m never going to live this down. He shrugs, all innocent charm, then steps right onto the grass like he’s about to downward dog his way into this betrayal.
“Traitor,” I whisper. “You’re not actually—” I start, but he’s already crouching to greet one of the tiny goats and looking far too pleased about it.
“They’re cute,” he says, shrugging. “It might be relaxing.”
Nora flops down onto her mat and pats the one beside her. “Come on, darling. I’ll even let you borrow my extra mat. It’s Hermes.”
Of course it is.
“I’m wearing boots,” I protest weakly.
“God gave us feet. Yoga gave us the excuse to show them off,” she replies, dead serious.
I realize I should be playing along—this is actually the perfect opportunity for us to be with Nora on her own, away from the rest of the family. She’s already halfway distracted, high on sunshine and goat serotonin. If there was ever a time to nudge a few truths loose, it’s now.
So I take a breath, force a smile, and unlace my shoes like I’m about to have a spiritual experience instead of an awkward interrogation surrounded by miniature livestock.
My socks are dampened by the dew still clinging to the grass.
Theo glances at me, thoroughly amused. I do my best to ignore him, impossible a feat as that is.
“Alright,” I say, stepping onto the mat beside him and dodging goat excrement by an inch, which feels painfully on brand for me. “Let’s bond.”
Immediately, Biscotti—who is, in fact, full of sass—parks himself on my thigh like I’m his personal doggy pillow.
Kiddie pillow?
Whatever.
“See?” Nora beams. “They love you.”
“Or they smell fear and want to torture me.” I eye the tiny creature, who stares back with those unsettling, rectangular pupils and lets out a bleat so aggressive it feels personal.
“Of all the things for you to be afraid of, Jennings.” Theo chuckles, too relaxed for someone scratching the head of a goat whose eyes look like portals to some mildly haunted dimension.
“Baryn’s not home, by the way,” Nora says breezily, as she adjusts a yoga block with her foot.
“The extra mat was for him. I totally forgot about his trip. He’s off in Montana with his latest thing.
Some kind of silent wilderness retreat. No phones.
No shoes. Just men and their existential dread, brooding under pine trees like sad forest monks. ”