Chapter 16 Modus Operandi #2
Beside me, Theo leans back on his heels, one hand braced on the floor for balance.
His eyes are trained on the wall in front of us, willing it to speak.
He tracks every photograph, every scribbled note, every red loop, his mind clearly running a thousand simulations, waiting for the right one to spit out the answer.
He looks as if he’s been carved into place by the weight of it all.
I tap my pen against the floor. It’s not exactly thinking—more like trying to shake something loose. But we’re stuck with the same half-formed answers, dead ends in disguise.
I’m staring at the twisted braids of the lariat pinned to the board, tracing each overlap and knot, when a thought pushes through the noise in my head.
“What if—” Theo pauses what he’s doing to give me his full attention.
“You said the person needed to be taller than Victoria. Bigger. I assume the same would be true for Henry, even though he was seated at his desk. It still takes a lot of strength to overpower someone like that. What if the poison was a means to subdue the victim? Weaken them enough that pulling the metaphorical trigger would be easy. Or at least doable.”
His expression shifts into something expectant, a clear invitation to keep going, to follow the thread until it leads somewhere.
“Someone in the middle of a psychotic break wouldn’t be able to plan something this structured.
But a person with an established delusional belief system might still fixate on a specific way they want to end someone’s life, and their mind fills in the blanks with whatever steps make it feel possible.
It doesn’t have to be logical. It just has to fit the internal story they’ve already committed to. ”
I wonder who on this compound I could realistically claim was operating under a delusional belief system, and both Katherine and Nora come to mind almost too easily.
Theo scrubs a hand over his stubble. “I think you’re onto something. Unfortunately, that also expands our suspect list in a way I’m not thrilled about.”
I release a loud sigh. Unfortunately.
“We’re kind of good at this,” I say, a little surprised by how much I mean it.
We haven’t cracked anything wide open—yet—but there’s something about the way our minds lock in, the way we push each other’s thoughts forward, that feels like progress.
Like momentum. A stubborn cognitive lock that, given time, leads somewhere worth going.
Theo doesn’t miss a beat. “Good partners,” he says quietly.
“We should start a business,” The beginnings of a smile tug at my mouth.
He lets out a short laugh, finally glancing over. “Only if we get custom mugs.”
“And jackets,” I tease, nudging his arm.
“With so many pockets,” he says, turning toward me now, fully in it. “For our spy gear. Lock picks. Flashlights. Highly classified snacks.”
“Oh, definitely. Peanut butter crackers and caffeine pills.”
“And one of those little notebooks where you write down weird details that won’t matter until the third act.”
I snort. “Do you have one of those?”
He pauses, lips twitching. “No comment.”
“What should we call our new business?” I ask.
“Salty & Sweet Sleuthing Co.” His silly answer evolves into us spitballing name ideas.
“The Clue Crew.”
“Not-So-Private Eyes.”
“Mystery Mates, Inc.”
Our eyes meet. It’s one of those things that should be funny, but something shifts between us.
He’s still smiling, but it’s softer now, like everything we’ve been wading through just caught up to him too.
Or maybe it’s just this moment. This closeness, suspended somewhere between overwhelm and clarity.
My heart stumbles, just a little. But I don’t look away.
Then his gaze dips—just briefly—to my mouth. Not even conscious, maybe. But I feel it. A gravitational pull that drags every molecule of air toward the narrowing space between us.
The room doesn’t change temperature, but I do. Heat floods through me, curling tight around my very bones.
I can’t pull my eyes from his, my heartbeat tapping out Morse code against my ribs. “Theo.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t do that.”
He’s all mock innocence when he says, “Do what?”
“That thing,” I say, leaning in just enough to feel the heat between us spark. “That whole ‘my mouth’s thinking about your mouth’ look. It’s rude.”
His lips curve. “Is it?”
“Cruel, honestly.” I narrow my eyes. “You’re weaponizing your smolder.”
His expression darkens, turns menacing. “Well, maybe if you weren’t sitting there looking like—”
I chuck a pillow at him, because I am a fucking coward.
He dodges it easily. Show-off. Before I can react, we’re in a blur of motion. A tangle of limbs, laughter, and something buzzier beneath it all.
Not quite tension. Not quite not.
My knee hits the floor, and his weight shifts to block my next move, bracketing me in, body close, as if I’m a flight risk he fully intends to keep grounded.
His hands land on either side of my hips, not possessive, just steady.
It feels like he’s the only thing keeping my world from tipping sideways.
I freeze as he leans in—not close enough to kiss, just enough to steal every rational thought.
His breath skims my cheek, and my brain seizes all over again.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Jennings,” The words come out unevenly.
I swallow hard. “I’m very good at games,” I say, the confidence in the way I say it a bit more pronounced than what I actually feel.
He gives me a playful look. Testing. “Surely not better than me?”
I lift my chin, trying to look more composed than I feel. “Wanna find out?”
Something flickers in his eyes, molten and curious, but it disappears as quickly as it came. He steps back, still smiling, and offers me a hand like we didn’t just have an almost-moment that might have lit the whole room on fire.
He’s all charm and unaffected ease. “Come on. You’re supposed to see Emily this afternoon. Let’s try not to faint from the lingering effects of chloroform. Or your deep, growing attraction to me.”
I take his hand, letting him pull me to my feet.
“No promises,” I say, before my brain has a chance to catch up.