Page 20

Theo

Phillip keeps his hands steady on the wheel as the City rushes by outside my window the next afternoon. It was a long lunch, and I’m ready to go home, though it’s not yet that time. I lean back into the leather seat, trying to focus on the afternoon ahead. But last night sticks with me, stubborn and strong, like it doesn’t want to let go.

Mackenzie’s soft moans still echo in my ears, her pleasure a sweet, intoxicating victory. I wanted more and still do, and even now, the memory of her beneath me lingers. I can still taste her, still feel the heat of her skin, and if I close my eyes for too long, I slip right back into that moment.

Already I’m plotting. Words, gestures, crafted moments to coax her into more tonight. Maybe dinner at her favorite restaurant, the one with the dim lighting and private booths. Or perhaps…

My phone vibrates, yanking me out of the fantasy. The moment I answer, Jim’s voice is clipped, urgent. “Theo, I need you at Clear Security. Now.”

I straighten. “Is there a problem?”

“Can’t discuss it over the phone. Just get here.”

“Understood.” I end the call, my jaw tightening.

I slide my phone back into my pocket and glance toward the front. “Change of plans, Phillip. Clear Security.”

“Right away.” Without hesitation, he exits the freeway and adjusts course, merging into the next lane with seamless precision.

I fire off a message to Mackenzie.

Me: Something’s come up. Meeting at Clear Security. Will fill you in later.

Her reply is instant.

Mackenzie: Got it. Your afternoon is cleared.

I let out a slow exhale, forcing my thoughts into order. Mackenzie will have to wait. The taste of her, the plans forming in my mind—all of it is boxed up, locked away.

Phillip drops me at the front door, and I’m buzzed in. The receptionist directs me, and I climb the stairs to the second floor.

“Good, you’re here,” Austin says, pushing off the wall near a conference room door. He looks calm, but the tight line in his jaw says he’s anything but. Rhys and Mason are next to him, both serious, their faces hard to read. We nod at each other in greeting, but no one really speaks.

Grantham Wilks comes bustling down the hallway. “Let’s get started,” he says, leading us into the room, into everything we’ve been trying to find.

As I step inside, the full weight of what the search for Justin has meant hits me. The walls are covered with photos, maps, timelines, and messy notes about leads that went nowhere. It feels like walking into a crime scene frozen in time, a painful reminder of everything we’ve lost.

“Thought they’d have cleared this out by now,” Mason mutters, echoing my thoughts. But they haven’t. That means there’s something new, something important.

The glass door swings open, and Jim walks in, his face set with purpose. Stella, his office manager, is right behind him, holding a laptop close. Then comes a man I don’t know.

“Everyone, take a seat,” Jim says.

We all move at once, drawn to the table like we don’t have a choice.

Stella gets to work quickly, her fingers flying over the keys as she connects the laptop to the projector. The curtains close with a soft sound, and the room dims, lit only by the glow of the screen.

An official-looking document appears—full of text and medical terms. The black-and-white header is clear, Precision Pathology Group.

It’s the kind of document that decides facts. That draws a hard line between life and death.

Jim takes a deep breath and presses his hands on the table. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with,” he says. The man I don’t know steps forward. “This is Clay McGrath, our company doctor,” Jim explains.

Clay gives us a tired smile. “Good afternoon,” he says. “I’ll help explain the autopsy report.”

My focus sharpens on the screen as he begins. “We’re looking at subendocardial and perivascular hemorrhage with focal myocardial oedema.” He looks out at what I’m sure are very blank faces. I have no idea what that means. “Essentially, bleeding beneath the heart’s inner lining and swelling within the heart muscle due to fluid accumulation.”

He pauses, letting the information sink in. “Justin didn’t exhibit severe anemia or respiratory issues, but the autopsy did find toxic cardiac glycosides upon testing various organs. This indicates evidence of poisoning in the heart.”

The air now feels charged as he continues. “The primary toxin is oleandrin. It disrupts the sodium-potassium ATPase pump. This can lead to serious arrhythmias and cardiac arrest. Basically, it disrupts the balance of salt and potassium in the heart’s cells, leading to dangerous heart rhythms or even making the heart stop.”

Clay points to the bottom of the report, now bigger on the screen. “This report says Justin’s death has been officially classified as murder,” he says. “It looks like he was poisoned with oleander.”

“The plant?” I ask. A cold feeling spreads through my body. Oleander is dangerous, but it can look harmless, like any normal flower.

It’s official. Someone murdered Justin. I suppose I knew that when they found him in a freezer, but now, seeing it in black and white, my world spins.

Everyone is still. It feels like we’re sitting in a museum of bad news, too afraid to move.

Clay McGrath has Stella move on to the next page. The light from the projector shines behind him, stretching his shadow across the wall. “The stomach contents indicate that he had a smoothie within two hours of his death,” Clay says. “But all signs indicate that he was being poisoned over time. A smoothie would make a good delivery mechanism, though.”

The word poison is scary. It makes everything feel darker.

Mason shifts in his chair, gripping the table. “Could it have been a mistake?” he asks. “Maybe it was an accident? Or maybe something added to a protein powder at the health food store?”

Clay shakes his head. “No. Oleandrin is poison. It’s dangerous in any amount. It should never be in food or drinks.”

Someone killed him who knew his routine. Someone gave him regular doses of something terrible and waited for the poison to work.

A slow, icy chill creeps up my spine.

There’s a killer among us. Someone we trust. Maybe someone who worked beside us, smiled at us, even shared lunch with us.

Until we find out who it is, none of us are safe.

“Does anyone know where he bought his smoothies?” Grantham asks.

We all look at each other, shaking our heads.

“I’ll check with Mackenzie,” I say, making a mental note. It feels strange not to know everything about Justin’s daily habits, especially when those details might hold clues. “When will the police know about this?”

Clay adjusts his glasses. “They’ve already got it. We sent it to the medical examiner and to Inspector Harris at the same time.”

“Justin and Crystal have a giant hedge of oleander bushes behind their house,” Rhys says.

“Does anyone else have a key to Justin and Crystal’s home?” Grantham asks.

“Only Justin, Crystal, my team, and Justin’s mom,” Jim says.

What feels like an inevitable truth comes into sharp focus in my mind. No one will meet my eyes.

“So what happens next?” Austin asks.

“We’ll keep talking with the police,” Grantham says. “Since only a few people had access to the house, it should help clear your names.”

That gives me a little hope, but not much. It seems painfully clear now, but proving what happened will likely be a whole other process. The chair creaks under me as I try to calm the screaming in my mind. “I think we’re all thinking the same thing,” I say, looking around the room. “The clues…they’re all pointing to Crystal.”

People shift in their seats. Even Austin, who usually pushes back, nods slowly. Rhys runs a hand through his hair.

“But here’s the thing,” Mason says. “Crystal’s not a good liar. All the sadness, the anger—everything we’ve seen since Justin disappeared—it looked real.”

He’s right. Crystal’s tears, her panic, her tired face—none of it seemed fake. She seemed like someone truly heartbroken. None of us wants to believe she could hurt Justin. But if not her, who?

Jim clears his throat. “Whatever we think,” he says, looking each of us in the eye, “it stays in this room. No guesses. No rumors. Got it?”

“Of course,” Grantham says quickly. “I’ll reach out to the police.”

“If it’s okay, I’ll talk to Mackenzie, and once I find out, I’ll let everyone know if she knows where Justin got his smoothies.” I take a deep breath. “What about Justin’s mom? And Crystal? They need to know.”

The room goes quiet. I stand up. “I can tell them.”

Jim nods. “The police will release the body in the next week,” he says. “They can start planning the funeral.”

I don’t want this to be real. I close my eyes for a second, wishing it was all a bad dream. But when I open them, everyone’s still here, and the truth hasn’t changed.

“All right,” I say. “Let’s get ready for what’s next.”

A blanket of silence hangs over us all the way back to the office. My mind can’t seem to settle on any one thing.

Why would someone do this? Was it Crystal?

What would be the motive to kill our CEO and friend?

I walk back into the office, but it doesn’t feel the same anymore. Everything feels off, like the truth I just learned changed everything.

I spot Mackenzie at her desk. She looks up right away, and her face goes pale.

“Can you come to my office?” I ask.

She nods and follows me in. I close the door behind us.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, but I know she can already guess the answer.

I shake my head. “We got the autopsy report,” I say. “Justin was poisoned. With oleander.”

She gasps and covers her mouth. “Justin’s backyard fence is covered in oleander.”

I nod, feeling sick. “Did Justin ever buy smoothies from a store? Or have them delivered?”

She shakes her head. “No. Never. He told me Crystal made them for him every morning.”

“He had smoothie in his stomach, and that’s likely what was tainted with oleander,” I whisper.

We’re both quiet for a minute.

“The police are probably going to want to talk to you again,” I say, even though I hate it.

Mackenzie nods. “I’ll tell them everything I know.” But then her voice breaks, and the tears fall.

I walk over in two steps and pull her into a hug. She cries hard, her whole body shaking.

I hold her tighter, hoping it helps. “Start your weekend early. Go back to my condo,” I whisper. “Be with Levi. I’ll come home later.”

She nods, and after a moment, she wipes her eyes. Then, without another word, she leaves. As soon as the door closes, the office feels too quiet, like something important is missing.

But I can’t stop now. I sit at my desk and send an email to everyone who was at the meeting and tell them what I’ve learned—Justin drank a smoothie every day made by Crystal.

Their replies come back fast.

“I’ll tell the police,” Grantham writes. “And I’ll try to get Crystal to come back without telling her about the autopsy.”

“Good luck,” I type in return. I know she won’t come easily.

Austin writes next. “Keep us posted.”

We’re stuck in this now, this dark, messy puzzle of secrets and lies. And we won’t be free until we know the truth.

I grab my phone and call Crystal. But her number’s been disconnected. She hasn’t answered any messages in months, and from what IT told us, she hasn’t accessed her EnergiFusion email since she learned everything she got from Justin was fake. Her phone was the last means I had to reach her. She’s gone.

I stare at the screen, wishing it would give me something—anything.

But it doesn’t.

And now, there’s only one other person who might have answers.

I call Turner, though we haven’t spoken since he was last in San Francisco, which was over a year ago. I’m a shitty friend.

The line connects, and loud music and shouting blast through the phone—drums, guitars, and people yelling. It sounds like a wild party. Then I hear Turner’s voice. “Hey! You wouldn’t believe this place. It’s like a castle from a spooky fairy tale!”

“Where are you?”

“We’re in an old castle in Romania. It’s totally awesome!”

I shake my head, imagining him far away from all the pain and stress here.

“Sounds amazing,” I say. “Are you working on your album?”

“Yeah. The whole band is here. Romania’s wild. All the stories and legends… It’s inspiring everything I’m writing.” He sounds excited and happy. For a moment, I almost forget why I called.

But I can’t let myself get distracted.

“That’s great, Turner,” I say. “But I need to tell you something important.”

The noise on his end fades, or maybe I just stop hearing it as I focus.

“They found Justin,” I say. “I don’t know if you saw that in the news where you are, but he’s dead. We’re getting ready to plan his funeral, and we’d love to have you here for it.”

There’s nothing but silence.

Turner—usually loud and full of energy—is suddenly quiet. I picture him standing there, holding the phone, trying to understand what I just said.

“He’s really gone?” he finally whispers. “Where was he?”

“He was found in a storage unit here in the City.”

“How did he get there?”

“We don’t know, and we may never,” I lie smoothly.

He lets out a sharp breath. I imagine him putting his hand over his face, trying not to cry.

“Do you know where Crystal is?” I ask. “She’s disconnected her phone, and I need to tell her we’re working on the funeral.”

I hate asking, but I really want to hear that someone else is behind the poison in Justin’s smoothies. Crystal has to talk to us in order to clear her name.

There’s a pause. A long one. And that says more than any words.

“I have a way to contact her,” Turner finally says. “Is she invited to the funeral?”

“Of course,” I say, though it’s hard to get the words out. “We want her here. Justin was her husband. When you talk to her, tell her it’ll be small. Just close friends and family. And please ask her to call me. She shouldn’t have to manage this alone.”

Turner lets out a breath. When he speaks again, his voice is firm. “The timing is shit, but I’ll do whatever I can to be there.”

We say a few more words—simple things—and then end the call.

I stand up and walk to the bar in my office. The clock on the wall shows it’s nearly four thirty. I pour a little bourbon into a glass and watch the golden liquid shine. I take a sip. It burns going down, but it helps me stay steady.

Then I pick up the phone again and call Gina, Justin’s mother.

She answers right away. “Theo?”

“Hi, Gina,” I say. “I have some news.”

Before I can even tell her, she starts crying. It doesn’t stop as I tell her the details.

“Crystal always made him his morning smoothie,” she sobs. “He was so happy she wanted to take care of him.”

“I know,” I say, taking another sip of my drink. “But we don’t know anything for sure yet.”

The line goes quiet.

“It has to be her,” Gina whispers. “Who else would it be?”

I want to tell her not to jump to conclusions, that we don’t know the full truth yet. But deep down, I’m asking myself the same thing.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” I say anyway. “The police are still looking into it.”

Gina takes a shaky breath. “Are we clear to plan the funeral?” Her voice is quieter now, calmer. “I want to be part of that.”

“Of course,” I tell her. “Mackenzie will call you soon.”

“Thank you.”

We hang up, and the silence comes back. I stare at my glass. The bourbon doesn’t help much, but it’s something.

Justin is really gone. He’s not going to walk through the doors. He’s not going to tease me about being late. He’s never going to be a father. My heart hurts. I miss him so much.

And the person who may have done it…might be the one he trusted the most.

After a moment, I set the empty glass on my desk with a soft clink.

I press my hands to my eyes. I want to cry, but I can’t—not yet. There’s still more work to do. I take a deep breath, sit up straight, and turn to my computer. A few quick clicks and I open the group chat with Austin, Rhys, and Mason.

Me: Just spoke to Gina. She’s devastated. But she’s ready to organize Justin’s funeral.

One by one, their replies come in.

Austin: Got it. I’ll call her this weekend. She shouldn’t have to deal with this alone.

Rhys: I can make plans to go see her if she’s up for visitors. Whatever she needs.

Mason: I’ll check in too. Let’s make sure she knows we’ve got her back.

Reading their messages makes me feel a little better. We’ve created something strong here, something that can’t be broken, even by pain.

Me: Thanks, guys. We’ll get through this together.