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He suddenly moved from the bed, following me out onto the balcony, and I wondered if it had gone through his mind that I might jump. He seemed to believe I was in a precarious state, and maybe I was, but I was made of sterner stuff than that.

I half expected the manuscript to be gone—that’s how weird my life had become of late, but no. It was right where I’d left it, wedged down between the cement planter and container. I pulled the binder out, brushed the dirt from the damp pages.

I handed the sheaf to Finn and returned inside, climbing shakily onto the bed.

“ I Know What You Did ?” He watched me huddle back under the blankets. “What is this?”

“I’m not completely sure. I’m pretty confident it’s not a submission.”

He closed the glass doors and dropped into the chair beside the window. He flipped open the binder and began to read. I watched him for a minute or two, watched his eyes narrow, watched his mouth straighten into a hard line.

He read through to the end, and said finally, “That’s it? One chapter?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s U.N. Owen?”

That wasn’t the question I expected. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or not. “I think he’s an author by the name of Troy Colby.”

“And you know him how?”

“I don’t. I don’t think I do. He handed me this manuscript after the Stranger Than Fiction panel and kept going. I was talking to Rachel and didn’t get a good look at him.”

“But you know his name…how?”

“Colby lives at the address on the title page.”

Finn didn’t have to glance down. “In Steeple Hill?”

“Yes.”

“Where you went yesterday.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“What did he have to say for himself?”

Again, not the question I expected. “I didn’t speak to him.”

Finn said nothing.

I said, “According to his neighbor, Colby is here.”

“ Here ? At the conference?”

“Yes.”

Finn frowned. “But you haven’t spoken to him?”

“Until yesterday afternoon, I wouldn’t have known who to ask for. By the time I got back last night…”

My words dried up as I remembered the reason for the delay. The funny thing was it was already starting to feel distant. Unreal. A terrifying dream—but a dream.

It wasn’t a dream, though. I hadn’t imagined it.

“You were running late.”

“Yes. I had a…flat on the drive back to Monterey.” The habit of keeping things to myself was so deeply ingrained that even now I was stalling telling the complete story.

“I don’t know why—it never occurred to me that he was still at the conference.

I assumed his purpose in showing up was to deliver the manuscript.

Apparently, he actually is an aspiring writer. ”

Finn looked thoughtful. “Is it possible you previously rejected one of his manuscripts? Maybe you had a run-in at another conference?”

If so, it seemed like an extreme reaction. “It’s possible.”

“You don’t think so?”

“I don’t know. It wouldn’t explain how he knows…”

“Right. Given your reaction, I’m taking it for granted this manuscript isn’t a prank or a stunt. How much of it is accurate?”

“Someone knows more than I would have thought possible. But it’s wrong on key points.”

That there was no actual location given, beyond outside at night, was interesting. Some of it could certainly have been guesswork. Or simply the most likely scenario?

His green gaze was serious, steady. “Such as?”

“I didn’t kill Dom.”

“Okay. So, there really was a Dom.”

He seemed weirdly matter-of-fact. Was that a cop thing? The trained reaction of someone used to hearing bizarre and alarming information?

“Dominic Baldwin. Yes.”

“Is there a Milo?”

“There was. Yes. Milo Argyros.”

“Who killed Dom? Milo?”

It was difficult to reply because I wasn’t sure he believed me, and of course this was a big part of what I’d feared all along.

“Yes. It was self-defense.”

Finn’s expression remained unreadable. “What happened?”

At the time it had all seemed black and white. Now, older and wiser, I understood how much I had assumed, how much I had taken for granted, and how other people were liable to view and judge my decisions.

As I hesitated, Finn said, “Start at the beginning.”

“Right. I’m not sure how it started. Dom and Milo were both on the football team.

They were friends until senior year. But then Dom found out—or at least suspected—that Milo was gay, and he started to harass him, tried to bully him.

It escalated. They got into a couple of fights at school and were nearly kicked off the team, but Dom’s father was a judge.

The Baldwins were rich and influential.”

Nothing from Finn.

“Milo’s family wasn’t rich or influential, but he was our best player.

Well, he and Dom were our two top players, so…

Nothing happened. There were warnings. No one really made any effort to sort it out.

Maybe there was no sorting it out. It went on like that and then, one night Milo phoned me and said Dom had attacked him and Milo had fought back.

He was afraid he’d killed Dom and he was begging for my help. ”

“Why you? Where did you fit in?” Finn asked.

“Milo and I were— He was my boyfriend.”

My first boyfriend. My first love.

Finn nodded slowly. “Got it. So, Milo phones you that he thinks he’s killed Dominic. Then what?”

“I went to the graveyard—”

“Wait. What?”

“St. Bibiana’s. There’s a historic cemetery in Steeple Hill where high school kids used to get high or just fool around. Maybe they still do. Milo would go there to drink. Dom knew that.”

“Right. You went to the cemetery and—?”

“Dominic was dead.”

“Was he?”

My eyes flashed to Finn’s. I stared at him.

“ Yes . I swear to God. He was dead. His head was…smashed in.” Even now, the memory shook me.

“It wasn’t a rock, though. Milo said he had to grab a flower urn.

He—Milo was covered in blood, too. There were marks, bruises on his neck where Dom had tried to strangle him.

It was self-defense. Dom would have killed him. ”

“That’s very possible. You weren’t there, though. You didn’t see it. This is Milo’s account of what happened. Correct?

“I could see that Milo had been fighting for his life. He was in shock. Crying. Shaking.”

It remained real and present in my memory, and yet as I related a scene I had replayed in my mind thousands, if not millions, of times, the narrative sounded flat and fake. I sounded like I was reading from a script. I felt like I was reading from a script.

There was no deciphering Finn’s expression. “What happened next?”

“We didn’t know what to do. Because of Judge Baldwin.”

“Ah. The rich and influential judge?”

“Yes.”

“Neither of you went to your parents? Neither of you contacted law enforcement?” Finn sounded like he’d heard this same depressing story a million times. Stupid, violent kids doing stupid, violent things.

I met his gaze. “At the time my father was sheriff.”

“I…see.” He expelled a long, controlled breath. “Okay. That… I understand why you didn’t have confidence in the system. But if it was actually self-defense, why didn’t Milo go to the sheriff’s department? Or another agency. Why didn’t he talk to a teacher? Why didn’t he talk to his parents?”

“I don’t know for a fact that he didn’t talk to his parents. I never told anyone. Until now. I don’t think Milo told anyone. The last time we spoke, he hadn’t told.”

“Why didn’t he go to law enforcement?”

“Milo knew about—what my father was like. Even if I’d encouraged him to talk to someone at the sheriff’s office…

” I shook my head. “There would have had to be a trial. His family wasn’t well off.

How would they afford a decent lawyer? They’d have had to mortgage their home.

And Milo was relying on scholarships for college.

If he was arrested, even if he was found not guilty, his future would have been trashed. ”

Finn heard me out. He said curiously, “That’s what you thought back then. Is that what you think now?”

I opened my mouth, but he was right. These were the arguments we’d made at the time. As an adult, I could see, not only the flaws in our teenaged logic, but the troubling ethical gaps in our reasoning.

He didn’t wait for my reply. “I interrupted you. What happened after you got to the graveyard and saw that Dominic was dead?”

“Milo was terrified and panicking. He wanted me to help bury Dom in the cemetery. I tried. We tried. But we just couldn’t do it. Shoveling a hole deep enough to bury a full-sized human?”

Finn said wryly, “It’s extremely difficult.

The improper or inadequate disposal of the body is one of the most common ways murderers get nailed.

It’s a major vulnerability because a corpse is large, heavy, and difficult to transport or destroy without drawing attention.

Also, most perps underestimate the forensic evidence a body carries. ”

Fantastic. I had been reduced to a perp in Finn’s mind.

I said, “Even if we’d had all the time in the world, I don’t think we could have done it. And we didn’t have all the time in the world. So, I told Milo I’d take care of it.”

Finn’s brows drew together. “Which meant what?”

I swallowed hard. My stomach felt very rocky again.

A five-minute drive that had seemed to take hours.

The old pickup’s high beams carving narrow, skittish tunnels of light through the fog-shrouded pines.

The dead weight of Dominic’s lifeless form sliding, settling with a horrible finality when I took corners too fast. The rattle of the shovel in the bed of the truck, clanging like a broken church bell with every pothole.

The sweet, metallic taste of blood in my mouth—I’d bitten the inside of my cheek without realizing it.

I said dully, “We loaded Dom in the bed of my pickup. I told Milo to go home. Then I drove out to Pescadero Marsh Natural Preserve and dumped the body.”