Chapter 16 Modus Operandi
MODUS OPERANDI
LILA
Ineed a breakthrough.
Or at the very least, a visual aid that doesn’t live exclusively in my skull and keeps me up at night like a conspiracy-obsessed raccoon.
Because at this point, my brain is just clutter.
Theories overlapping with timelines, motive threads knotted around toxicology reports, a dozen what-ifs and too many dead ends.
I keep circling the same ideas, hoping they’ll suddenly make more sense if I tilt my head a different way. Spoiler: they don’t.
Theo keeps saying we’re close, like the truth is some low-frequency hum only he can hear. And maybe he’s right. Maybe we are close.
But close doesn’t mean clear.
The worst part—the most maddening, ill-timed part—is that I can’t stop thinking about whatever this is between Theo and me.
It’s always there, just under the surface, messing with my focus.
I keep trying to shove it aside, mentally forcing myself to the spreadsheet place in my brain—that cool, rational zone where I usually thrive.
But every time I close my eyes, he’s there.
In a look, a laugh, the way he says my name.
And just like that, I’m back to square one.
Right now, Theo’s clicking through one of the files we copied from Baryn’s drive—focused, relaxed, jaw set in a way that’s entirely too distracting given the whole murder investigation thing. Do I want to lick it? I’ll never tell.
But seriously, it’s getting harder to pretend I haven’t noticed the way his muscles flex seemingly of their own accord when he’s concentrating, or how rude it is that he looks like that while we’re wading through crime scene evidence.
“Okay, so.” I tap my pen against the notepad on my knee, trying to focus on anything that isn’t Theo’s bone structure. “Victoria Mayfair’s tox screen eventually showed hellebore. That was never in the official report. Which means someone either tampered with the lab results or—”
“—I am not sure there is another alternative at this point,” Theo cuts in, eyes narrowing.
“We also have to consider that the contents of her stomach may have prompted further testing—though, honestly, Victoria spent half her life gardening and handing out herbal teas to anyone within reach, so plant matter showing up in her stomach isn’t exactly a plot twist. For whatever reason, someone requested a follow-up,” I murmur.
“Someone didn’t buy the initial report. Potentially, someone who knew what Henry’s unfiled report showed and wanted to dig deeper. ”
“You think it was Baryn?” He looks at me, the question lingering.
“Maybe. He definitely had all the details about the poison involved in Henry’s murder that no one else had.
” I scribble a note in the margin of the pad.
“Or someone else who had doubts. Either way, they were right. I still don’t understand why the poison just to strangle her. Or him. Either of them.”
I lean sideways to peek at what he’s writing, partly out of curiosity, partly because watching him work has become its own weird form of comfort.
The way his face scrunches when he’s thinking.
The scratch of pen on paper. The calm in his presence, even while everything we’re uncovering is screaming the opposite.
It’s distracting. But it’s also grounding. And maybe I need both.
He doesn’t glance up, just keeps writing, his pen moving in steady, thoughtful strokes. Then, finally, he speaks. “This is a mess.”
My eyes skim the notebook. I want to say, “No shit, Sherlock,” but I go with, “Pretty sure we covered that.”
“It’s just so strange.” He leans back in his chair, tapping the pen lightly against his lip. “It’s personal. High risk. Up close. Violent. It doesn’t line up with the rest of what we’re seeing.”
I frown. “You’re thinking it doesn’t fit the profile?”
“I’m thinking it’s too intimate for someone who’s clearly trying not to leave a trace. Someone careful enough to mess with timelines and security footage, and maybe even tox screens? They don’t strike me as someone who loses control mid-crime, which is what strangulation usually stems from.”
The thought makes my skin prickle. “So what? They’re staging the scene to look personal?”
“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe it’s the signature. The message. Poisoning takes time. Intent. It's not a moment of panic—it’s a choice.”
I stare at the page, where he’s written ligature, same bruising pattern, and underneath that: control circled twice.
“But if they’re smart enough to manipulate evidence, why not choose something cleaner? Faster?” I ask. “Why not just poison them and let that be it?”
Theo is quiet for a long beat. “Maybe that was never the point.”
My thoughts scramble, catching on half-formed possibilities. I glance again at the timeline. There’s something in the pattern we’re missing—I can feel it. Something about the lead-up. The aftermath. The motive behind the method.
But the middle—the moment it happens—still doesn’t make sense.
For a second, all I can do is stare at him—this casually brilliant man who somehow puts up with my overthinking episodes, cuts through the noise with his incisive perspective, and—against all odds—has become the one person I trust to help me make sense of any of this.
When everything feels like it’s falling apart, he’s the one looking at the wreckage like it’s just a puzzle. Like it’s solvable.
I glance around the guest room we’ve turned into a DIY crime lab—papers on every surface, empty mugs scattered like landmines, and a half-eaten muffin sitting on a coaster. A still life; Forensic Disaster, with Carbs.
I push a stack of notes aside with the back of my hand, trying not to knock over the evidence pyramid we accidentally built out of sticky notes and coffee-stained papers.
“We need a better system,” I sigh.
“I was hoping we’d organize,” he says. “I brought string.”
“You brought string?” My tone lands somewhere between disbelief and fondness—the sort that creeps in when someone knows you well enough to anticipate your next step.
He shrugs. “And a board.” He says it like he didn’t just admit to premeditated red yarn enthusiasm. “I had a feeling you’d get twitchy if we didn’t properly visualize our descent into conspiracy hell.”
Apparently, he placed an order for it and bribed one of the staff to sneak it up without asking questions while I was in the shower yesterday. “Told her it was for a teaching display,” he says, not even bothering to look sheepish. “Also gave her twenty bucks and a ‘don’t ask’ face.”
I narrow my eyes, pretending to be unimpressed, even as something in me melts a little. He thought of this. Not just the mess or the board—but me, in the middle of it.
“I’m already twitchy.”
“I noticed,” his eyes still scan one of the pages. But the corner of his mouth pulls, just barely. It’s a flicker of something more subdued—and way more dangerous.
Because, honestly? I kind of want to lick that corner of his mouth too. Just to see if it tastes as delicious as it looks.
My stomach flips, traitorous and uninvited. I pretend it’s not happening. I pretend a lot these days.
Because if Theo’s leaving fingerprints all over this chapter of my life—smudging the margins, underlining the parts no one else sees—I’m starting to think I might not ever want to clean them off. And the thought of leaving him behind when this is all over?
I hate it.
The end of this week is approaching quicker than I ever anticipated, and now I’m not just frustrated that we are no closer to figuring this out, I’m also kind of sad at the thought of walking away from Theo.
We work in silence for a while, or at least, a silence made of rustling papers, the occasional snap of a binder clip, and the sharp pop of thumbtacks as I start pinning things to the cork board.
It’s bigger than I expected, now wedged against the guest room wall beneath the least offensive piece of art.
I still don’t know what we’re supposed to do with all of it when we’re not in the room. Shove it back under the bed? Cram it in the walk-in closet and pray no one opens the door? Here’s to hoping no one notices the murder collage tucked next to the spare linens.
Theo only breaks the quiet to read off lines from the files or to mutter things like “bastard” and “what a fucking douche,” with increasing conviction as he flips through the mess.
Occasionally, he leans over to hand me something I’ve missed, his fingers grazing mine in a way that feels borderline criminal and definitely not accidental.
It’s systematic, the way we work. Almost soothing. Like some part of us already knows how to move in sync—the same way we were when we broke into Baryn’s.
“Okay.” I stretch my arms above my head, spine giving a satisfying crack.
I reach to place the last photo on the board—a distorted still from one of the compound’s exterior security cameras.
It’s a blurry photo of Baryn’s face with no time stamp.
The quality’s garbage—pixelated shadows on a washed-out grayscale background.
He probably never intended for someone to break into his stuff and print this particular still off for dart-throwing purposes, but here we are.
“We have a motive. We have means. We have… very meh surveillance. But we still don’t have a definitive who. It could be any of them.”
I exhale, frustrated. The picture hangs slightly crooked on the tack, like even it’s unsure if it wants to commit to any solid theory.
I nudge it back into place, trying to focus.
Trying to think. I’m still leaning heavily toward Baryn.
I mean, how terrible would it be to podcast about a crime you committed?
But I wouldn’t put it past him—not even a little.
His smugness alone feels like probable cause.