The church bell rang five times. Lina sat on the crumbling stone bench overlooking the sea, a notebook on her knees, pen poised but unmoving. Below, the surf churned violently, as if echoing the tide in her chest.
She hadn't told Milo yet. She wasn't sure how. But the truth—brutal, jagged—had finally arrived.
The handwriting on the last note wasn't hers. Not exactly. But familiar.
It was Cecilia's.
Luca's cousin. Sweet Cecilia, who used to bring homemade biscotti in a tin and blush when Luca kissed her cheek. Cecilia, who'd been there that night. Who'd left just before the fight started. Who'd called the ambulance the moment she'd seen the blood on Lina's hands.
Lina turned the page, forcing the pen to move.
> I don't remember pushing him. But I remember wanting him gone.
Footsteps approached. Heavy, deliberate.
She didn't look up. "I know who left the pages."
Milo stood a few feet behind her. "You sure?"
She nodded. "Cecilia. She was always quiet, but she never liked pretending. She said I made Luca smaller. She thought I ruined him."
He sat beside her. "She's the one who saw you that night?"
"Yes. But it was her note that scared me the most." Lina pulled it from her coat pocket and handed it to him. The ink was dark, angry:
> He lied to you. About the contract. About the baby. About everything.
Milo read it slowly, jaw tightening. "You think she killed him?"
"I think she wanted to. But no. Luca fell."
"And the blood?"
"I tried to stop it," she whispered. "He hit his head. There was so much of it. I think I panicked. Or maybe I wanted people to believe I did it. Because I thought I had."
They sat with the sound of waves filling the air.
Lina turned to him. "You said grief and guilt look the same. But they don't feel the same, do they?"
"No," Milo said. "Grief is heavy. Guilt eats."
She looked at him, her eyes clearer than they'd been in months. "I need to tell her I know."
"Will that help?"
"I don't know. But I can't keep writing like I'm still lost. That's not truth. That's just hiding in prettier sentences."
Milo hesitated, then reached for her hand. His fingers were rough, warm. "You don't have to do it alone."
"I know."
For the first time, she meant it.