That night, Lina didn't sleep.
The buried letter pulsed in her mind like a wound refusing to close.
The rain hadn't let up. Water dripped steadily from the broken gutter outside her window, a rhythmic ticking like a metronome meant to drive her mad. She lit a cigarette with shaking hands and sat cross-legged on the cold floor, her back pressed to the wall.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw flashes. Water. Wind. Roman's voice was like thunder wrapped in silk.
And blood. Always the blood.
By morning, she hadn't written anything down, but something had cracked loose.
When she came down to the kitchen, Milo was already there. Shirt rumpled, eyes bloodshot. He didn't ask if she slept. He knew.
"You're bleeding," he said.
She looked down. The knuckle of her thumb was raw, the skin broken where she'd clawed at herself in the night without noticing.
"Just a scratch," she muttered.
He didn't argue. I just handed her a cloth and poured her coffee. Strong, black, unforgiving.
She sipped it silently, then said, "I remembered the storm."
He looked up, still but alert. "What part?"
"The fight. On the dock. It wasn't just yelling. He was grabbing my wrists. Trying to take the keys to the boat. I wanted to get away."
Milo leaned in slightly. "Did you push him?"
She closed her eyes. "I don't know. I think... I think I pulled away. And he lost his balance."
She opened her eyes again. "There was blood. He hit his head. But he was still breathing when I left."
"You left him there?"
"I didn't know what else to do. I was shaking. I thought—God, I thought I'd just go out into the bay and scream. Just scream until I wasn't afraid anymore."
"Then the storm hit."
She nodded.
"And when they found him...?"
"He was in the water. Already gone."
Milo's jaw tightened. "Do you think someone else was there?"
"I don't know. I was half-conscious when they pulled me out of the boat. I hit the rocks. Woke up in the hospital with a concussion and a detective asking if I wanted a lawyer."
He was quiet for a long time. Then: "If someone's leaving you those pages, they want you to think you're guilty. Or remind you you were."
She looked at him. "And you? What do you think?"
Milo walked to the window. Rain lashed the panes like fingernails. "I think people break in slow ways. Not with a bang—but with doubt. And you've been breaking for a long time."
He turned. "But I don't think you're a killer, Lina. If I did, I wouldn't be standing in this room."
She swallowed hard. "Why are you?"
"Because you're still here. Still fighting. That matters."
She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to.
But that night, when she opened her notebook to write—just write, not revise or publish or prove anything—she found another page.
Tucked between blank ones.
A single line, in her handwriting.
> You didn't push him. But you didn't help him either.