The rain returned that night, slow and slanting, thickening the air with salt and memory. Lina stood in the doorway of Milo's room, soaked to the skin, barefoot on the cold tile.
He looked up from the floor where he was crouched, drying off the cat with an old shirt.
"You look like you've been dragged out of the sea."
"Fitting," she said. "I went walking. Lost track of time."
"You walked into a storm?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she stepped inside. Her arms hung limp at her sides, a few strands of wet hair clinging to her cheek like seaweed. Milo tossed the shirt aside and stood, motioning toward the chair.
"Sit before you fall."
"I don't want to sit."
He studied her. "What do you want?"
She stepped closer, barely a breath between them. "Answers."
"From me?"
"From the night. From myself. I want to remember everything, even if it kills me."
Milo didn't flinch, didn't speak. He only watched her, as if daring her to shatter.
She whispered, "You don't believe I killed him, do you?"
He raised a brow. "Does it matter what I believe?"
"Yes."
He took a slow breath, his voice low and even. "I believe grief turns people inside out. I believe trauma screws with memory. But no, Lina—I don't think you're a killer. You're scared and angry and fractured, but not cruel."
She sat down, finally, her knees trembling. "Then why do I feel like I did it?"
"Because maybe you wanted to."
She stared at him.
"I didn't say you did it," he added. "But maybe part of you wanted him gone. That's not the same as murder."
"I dreamt of pushing him," she said. "In the dream, I do it. He falls and I don't stop him. I don't scream. I watch."
Milo crouched in front of her, his voice softer now. "Then maybe the dream is just your brain trying to make sense of what it doesn't know. Filling in the blanks."
"I found another page."
He looked up. "When?"
"Before the rain. On the windowsill this time. It was damp. Faded. But it said something like—'She watched the blood disappear into the waves. Let it go.'"
Milo cursed under his breath. "That's not just memory. That's someone playing with you."
"Then who? And why?"
He stood, pacing once. "There's maybe five people in this village who'd care enough to make your life hell."
"My editor?" she said dryly.
He smirked. "She'd just send emails in all caps."
"What about Clara?"
"The housekeeper?"
"She knew him. She liked him. Maybe she blames me."
Milo stopped. "Maybe. But Clara's blunt. If she hated you, you'd know it."
She leaned forward. "Then maybe it's not hate. Maybe it's guilt. Maybe someone else was there that night."
He looked at her sharply. "You think someone else killed him?"
"I don't know what I think. But every time I read another page, it feels more like a confession I didn't mean to make."
Thunder rolled across the coast. The lights flickered, then steadied. Milo turned toward the window.
"If you want to remember, there's a way."
She stood too. "What way?"
"There's a woman in Naples. Therapist, but...not the usual kind. Works with memory regression."
"You believe in that stuff?"
"I believe in trying everything once."
Lina crossed her arms. "And what if what I see confirms it?"
He met her eyes. "Then we deal with it. But not alone."
She was quiet, then, something crumbling behind her ribs.
"You mean that?"
He nodded. "Even if the truth is ugly."
She let out a shaky laugh. "Good. Because I have a feeling it is."
And somewhere below them, the sea whispered its endless secrets as if it, too, were waiting to speak.