Chapter 15 Volatile Compounds
VOLATILE COMPOUNDS
LILA
Graham’s lab smells like burnt coffee and industrial cleaner, which honestly somehow feels on brand for a place in the basement of a university building that might've once been used for Cold War experiments.
Which, to be fair, is only a slight exaggeration. There’s a cork board pinned with grainy photocopies of behavioral modification studies that absolutely should not still be in circulation.
It’s probably all harmless archival nostalgia. After talking to Graham once, I know he’s a little eccentric. The harmless kind, I hope—the kind who keeps a pet fern he talks to and accidentally puts his lunch in the freezer, not the kind who unintentionally pioneers a coercion technique.
Or maybe Bellwood has a basement habit of fostering research that raises eyebrows at international tribunals. Hard to tell.
I suppose universities collect weird things all the time.
Especially Bellwood, which hosts rotating exhibits built almost entirely from whatever the Mayfairs have donated over the years.
Antiquities, oddities, things no one can date without bringing in a specialist. It’s their version of school spirit, I guess.
Then I spot a file labeled “compliance thresholds,” and the universe pats me on the head for my optimism.
Still, Graham didn’t give me the sense he’s about to recruit me into a mind-control pilot program. Probably.
The overhead fluorescents flicker in a way that definitely wouldn’t pass a safety inspection—buzzing softly, flickering every few seconds like they’re short-circuiting.
Something in the corner is humming with the menace of a machine plotting rebellion.
I don’t know what it is, but it has too many vents and looks vaguely sentient.
Theo doesn’t seem to mind. He’s already in full detective-professor mode, unzipping his bag and arranging our meager evidence on the metal table in front of him. He doesn’t speak much, only hums under his breath, unbothered by the sterile unease of the room around us.
Graham looks exactly how I expected him to.
Someone who probably sleeps under his desk and hasn’t seen the sun in a while.
He’s seated at one of the benches, sipping from a mug that reads Crime Lab Daddy.
His lab coat is wrinkled, his hair is a hot mess, and a half-eaten protein bar rests on top of a microscope next to him.
When we walk in, he acknowledges us with a small lift of his mug, the report in his other hand keeping him from offering anything more.
Leaving the compound was stressful at best after last night—like, full-body tension, every nerve on high alert—but it was necessary.
So I came up with the most brilliant, on-the-fly excuse I could think of: I told Emily I had a standing allergy shot appointment I absolutely couldn’t reschedule.
Life saving stuff. I laid it on thick about how it only takes, like, an hour tops, and how it’s super important because, you know, springtime and pollen and me spontaneously combusting from breathing too close to a blooming dogwood.
Theo rubs his temple. “I feel like this is going to make or break us.”
“You would think that,” I say, because we did hopefully find the mother load last night. “But I refuse to be broken, and I feel pretty good about this laptop.”
“That we can’t access,” Theo says, matter of fact.
“For now,” I counter. I trust August’s hacking skills, based on what Theo’s said about him and vibes alone. It’s too early for his brand of realism.“And don’t forget the maybe-blood sample.”
On cue, Theo picks it up and tosses it underhand across the bench. Graham catches it without looking up, squints at the vial, and lifts it toward the overhead light. “‘Maybe blood’ is my favorite kind of blood,” he deadpans. “Adds an element of surprise.”
“Let’s skip the part where you lick it to confirm anything this time,” Theo mutters.
Graham shrugs. “I make no promises.”
We’d called him on the drive over, mostly to confirm what Theo already hoped—that if anyone could get into Baryn’s laptop, it was August. His day job is ethical hacking, which apparently means getting paid to break into things other people spent months securing.
Official title: penetration tester.
I was very proud of myself for not giggling at that.
As if summoned by the power of his own reputation, August appears in the doorway wearing a hoodie with some sort of death metal logo that could double as instructions for assembling cursed IKEA furniture if you squint just right, and long cat-print socks pulled high under his Birkenstocks.
“I brought muffins,” he announces, holding up a ziplock bag with exactly four questionable muffins inside. “And also my genius.”
Graham’s head lifts immediately, the pen in his hand stalling mid-line. It’s a small shift—loosened posture that says he’s actually happy for the interruption this time. He sets the pen aside, features softening. “They need into a laptop.”
“Oooh, B also, oh no.
The next thing I know the bench is unfurling away from me, the hum of the fluorescence becomes a high, polite complaint, and there is a very formal collapse into the great unknown.
Theo’s words come from far above me, filtered through the water I seem to be submerged in—a distant what the fuck sound that doesn’t register fully.
I’m out before I even hit the floor. Blissfully unaware of the landing, I do not feel the impact when I hit. Ten out of ten. Five stars. Would absolutely pass out again.
Theo
Theo hears the noise before he sees her. A sharp scrape of metal. A soft thud.
Then silence. It’s dense and wrong and fills him with panic.
His brain stalls, every instinct narrowing to that one absence of sound. Something’s happened.
He doesn’t think, he just moves on reflex. The one he’s developed from every situation involving Lila, where instinct always beats reason to the punch.
His stool clatters when it tips over, the laptop forgotten, and he’s on the floor beside her before the sound even fades. Lila’s sprawled on the tile, one arm over her waist, the other slack against the ground.
She doesn’t move, not even the smallest flicker from her long, beautiful lashes.
His pulse slams against the base of his throat.