I nod, trying to recall that day when Taylor came by to try and buy my silence. “Yeah. No, wait—”

“What?”

“I went downstairs to grab the food we ordered. Maybe she did go in the back.”

“In our room?” He shakes his head. “I had the bathroom door open. She had on heels. I would have heard her come back there.” He pauses a minute, thinking deeply.

“Maybe the cops told her they found the cyanide in the closet.”

He shakes his head effusively. “She knew it was on the top shelf and exactly what bag it was. The cops ain’t tell her that shit.”

“So you’re saying she created that fake interview so I would leave the apartment and that’s when she planted the cyanide?”

He nods. “She’s calculating, B. I tried to tell you. This is the way she moves. She planned the whole fucking thing.” He pauses. “I don’t know how she knew I’d be gone, but maybe it was a gamble.”

I think for a beat, then shake my head. “She knew you’d be gone too.”

“What do you mean?”

“That time she came over, I told her you go to the gym at the same time every morning. She knew and must have scheduled the interview for the same time.”

Nate nods like that makes perfect sense, then pushes out a breath. “The person who sent those emails is the only person who knew about the interview, knew you wouldn’t be here, knew they would have a safe window to plant some hard evidence. Taylor hacked into your account and then created that bullshit email chain with Simon.” He pauses. “Or knows someone who did.”

I think all that over a few times. “What about Simon’s emails to me?”

“She could have easily sent them from his account. All she needed was his password. They were living under the same roof. Think about it. She had access to his computer.”

“But how did she get into the apartment?” I ask, because even though I know he’s right, we still have to prove it or none of it matters.

Nate doesn’t have a quick answer to that one, but I can tell by his face that he’s been working hard to come up with an answer. “I don’t know.”

“You can’t pick our lock,” I say, thinking out loud.

“She had to have a key fob.”

“I have mine. You have yours. She didn’t swipe it from us.”

We both drift away in thought for a while, but neither of us comes up with an answer to that.

“So you really didn’t send her the photos of me?” I ask, a moment later.

Nate looks up at me like I should know better than that. “B, those were for me, nobody else. I wouldn’t do that to you.” He looks me straight in the eyes when he says this, and I know he’s being honest. I can feel it. I know that feelings aren’t pathways to truth—but I know. He’s not lying. He’s not pretending. He never was.