It is a consequence.
And once worlds touch,
neither remains untouched.
20
JUSTIN
My hand hovers over the envelope.
I shouldn’t—but I do it anyway. I hook a finger under the flap and tip the contents out onto my desk. Papers slide free in a soft rush, photographs following, spreading into a disorderly sprawl that instantly feels invasive. Final.
For a long moment, I don’t touch anything.
I just sit there, hands still, staring at the mess I’ve made without actually engaging with it. Like if I don’t pick anything up, I can still pretend I haven’t crossed the line Silas warned me about. I don’t know what it is about Rowan Hale—whether it’s the discipline, the silence, the way she’s managed to erase herself so completely—but something about her pulls at me. And the idea of combing through her past makes my chest thump dully, once, like a warning I’m choosing to ignore.
Eventually, I move.
It’s immediately obvious that Sheriff Morris was meticulous. Painstakingly so. Every page is dated. Every note precise. Timelines mapped. Names cross-referenced. This isn’t the work of a man going through the motions—it’s the workof someone who knew the truth mattered, even if the world didn’t want it to.
I can’t help but wonder who else knew this existed. Or if they thought they were safe once he was dead. That whatever he’d uncovered would sink neatly to the bottom of that lake with him.
They were wrong.
I organize the mess into two piles. One stack of documents. One of photographs. I do it methodically, without looking too closely yet, like control might soften the blow.
Even without examining them properly, I can tell what the photos are. Crime scene shots. The kind you never forget once you’ve seen them.
I leave those face down.
There’s only so much my stomach can handle this early in the day.
I pick the first sheet up.
The paper is old, yellowed at the edges, warped in places where moisture once soaked in and dried again. The surface is uneven—thick where the fibres have swelled, brittle where time has thinned them. I can picture tears falling onto it, soaking deep enough to leave the page stiff with something heavier than water. Grief, maybe. Anger. Both.
The handwriting stops me cold.
It’s unsteady. Too tight in some places, sprawling in others. The kind of scrawl that belongs to someone young—barely past childhood, still figuring out how to make sense of the world while it’s coming apart around them. Not polished or careful.
Rowan.
I know it immediately. I don’t know how, but I do. There’s something unmistakable in the pressure of the pen, in the way certain letters dig into the page like they’re being carved rather than written. This isn’t a statement. It isn’t testimony.
It feels like a diary entry. Something never meant to be read.
And yet, for reasons I don’t fully understand, the sheriff had it. Kept it. Preserved it alongside evidence and reports, like he knew it mattered just as much as any photograph or forensic note.
I start reading.
One line. Then another.
Her sister’s name appears again and again, written like a claim, like repetition might keep her real. The memories spill across the page in broken fragments—hands, voices, laughter that turns sharp, fear that arrives too fast to outrun. The language is violent. Messy. Untreated.
Nothing in this has healed.
The words aren’t crafted for sympathy. They’re ugly in the way truth often is. There’s terror here, thick and suffocating. Rage that has nowhere to go. Guilt folded into every sentence, crushing and relentless.
