Rye’s eyes met hers, soft and kind and perhaps a touch sad, even though it’d been so long for both that it was the absence that hurt most, not missing the person, per se. He nodded, tight-lipped. “I would.”
Embry tried to push past the moment. “Oakley even made up some story about how the backpack she insisted upon was her mother’s. That would’ve been the perfect opening to tell us said mother was Hannah Crawford.” She frowned. “Where is that dumb backpack anyway? Maybe it has some clues in it. It seems as if she wasn’t attached to it because it was a family heirloom.”
“People without dead mothers can still carry around their old things and be attached to them,” Rye pointed out. Embry supposed this was true though neither of them were in a position to experience that firsthand. Then, after a beat, he added, “Is it possible Oakley lied about these things to either impress you or endear herself to you? She could’ve appealed to your sense of exclusivityby creating the illusion that she was a more obscure vampire than she actually was—the rarest of the rare—and then opted to avoid discussing her mother so that you wouldn’t feel like she was bragging about what she had, knowing that yours had died?”
All the faces of Oakley Riddle circled a carousel in Embry’s brain.
The clueless new girl.
The courted amalgamation.
The wannabe star.
The nominee wearing a confident smile.
The winner—cloaked in a dress that had been designed with Hannah Crawford as inspiration—informing Embry of her intentions.
How had Oakley gone from one extreme to another so quickly if not for a little strategy? It wasn’t all just luck and organic enthusiasm, was it?
Finally, Embry admitted, “I suppose.”
“But?” Rye asked, prodding her for more.
“But,” Embry continued, reaching for a thought that felt oddly shaped, “why would someonein her late eightieswant to leave the safety of her family to attendhigh school?”
Rye considered this in that thoughtful way he had. And not for the first time, Embry felt a heavy sense of relief that he was the one who was with her. Sure he was vexing and righteous and often knew hertoo well, but now she knew she’d pick no one else.
Daddy—she’d worry too much about his heart.
Amethyst—she’d let Embry lead too much.
Balthazar—she’d hold back too much.
With Rye, everything was as easy as it was honest. All her prickly parts were on display, he knew them like the floorboards in this very house that squeaked too loudly and only put pressure on them when he needed to. If Embry was being truthful withherself, no one else could do that. And if they laddered the right questions atop one another in this way, they might just get somewhere closer to her freedom.
“That’s a great question,” Rye said after a long moment, “but I think a bigger one might be what any of these lies, as harmless as they seem, have anything to do with Oakley’s death.”
Goddess, he was right.
Embry’s biceps squeezed, bringing in her knees tighter to her chest. It felt good to hold on to herself that much tighter as the world around her grew shakier and shakier. In her tiny ball, she leaned closer to Rye, purposefully pressing harder into his shoulder now. Using him to ground herself. Feeling tears welling and her throat closing, Embry scrunched her eyes closed and tried to breathe through it.
“Em?” Rye asked softly, before seeming to abandon a line of questioning altogether and wrapping his arm around her shoulder. He hugged her into his body, tucking her head against the soft hollow of his neck, her shoulder turned against his ribs and chest. His heartbeat, steady and strong, played in her ear as the warmth of him spread from each point of contact through the whole of her torso, legs, cheek. “We don’t have to keep going if you don’t want to. We can just sit here, rest, be ready for the morning. There’s no shame in calling it quits for the day; we’ve done enough.”
Embry batted at her eyes, willing the tears not to spill over. With an overt rasp, she opened her mouth and whispered, “No, I want to keep going.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded so forcefully her hair fell into her face. Embry swept it back, drew in a shuddering breath, and met Rye’s concerned gaze. “I’m ready.”
But she wasn’t ready for what she saw on the next page.
Cause of death: magical poison.
Exactly as she’d suspected. Exactly what would’ve been expected of her.
She read the zoomed-in words over and over until Rye thumbed down the page. “Looks like the origin hasn’t been determined yet, but the report suggests that multiple organ failure occurred within seconds of ingestion, thus definitely magical. Which means,” he said, watching her as he spelled out what she already knew, “either a very strong witch made the poison and used it to kill her or someone without those skills bought the poison and killed her with it.”
When Embry’s lungs kicked into motion, it was with such an exhalation it felt as if her soul left her body for a moment. Probably for the best if it just departed now, honestly.
