~OLIVIA'S POV~
I locked my bedroom door and sat on the floor with Leo's journal pressed against my knees. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. The sound of my heartbeat drowned out everything else.
The house felt too quiet, like it knew something terrible had happened.
I flipped open the first page. His handwriting was the same, tidy, slanted, a little impatient.
> Week 4. The Society finally noticed me. Harlow says I'm getting close. I just need proof.
The Society. Aethelred. He'd told me about it once, laughing, like it was some campus rumor. Now it felt like a ghost breathing behind the ink.
Page after page, I read his thoughts, frustrations about the project, about people he didn't trust, about a "test" they were running that made him uncomfortable.
Then I reached the end.
The pages stopped abruptly. Torn clean out.
I flipped forward, backward. Nothing. Just jagged edges where the paper had been ripped, the fibers still rough under my fingertips.
"Why, Leo…" I whispered.
The tears came quietly, slipping down my cheeks and staining the paper.
A knock sounded. "Olivia, open the door."
My father's voice. Calm but firm.
I wiped my face and stayed silent.
Another knock. Louder this time. "Olivia. Don't make me use the spare key."
I sighed and got up, opening the door just enough to see his tired eyes. He'd just come home from a night shift; his uniform still smelled faintly of smoke and coffee.
"What is it?" I asked.
He stepped in without waiting. His gaze dropped to the journal on the floor. "That belongs to him right?"
"Yes."
"Where'd you get it?"
"He mailed it to me."
He frowned. "Before he—?"
"Yes."
Dad picked it up carefully, flipping through the pages. "You shouldn't be reading this right now."
"Why not?"
"Because it's only going to hurt you."
"I need to understand," I said, my voice low but steady.
He sighed. "Olivia, I've seen this before. People get stuck. They replay what happened, trying to find something that explains it. But there isn't always an explanation."
"He didn't kill himself."
"Olivia—"
"I heard his voicemail. He said they found out. Does that sound like suicide to you?"
He looked at me, his jaw tightening. "You think he was murdered?"
"I know he was."
Dad shut the journal, firm. "That's enough. You need to stop."
"I can't."
"You will!"
I flinched. His tone was final, the way it used to be when I was a kid sneaking out past curfew.
He looked at the journal again. "This, this thing isn't helping. It's an anchor. You need to let go."
I crossed my arms tightly over my chest, a small act of defiance, as if the gesture could shield me from his words. "You want me to forget him?" The question came out cracked, half disbelief, half accusation.
My father's eyes softened, but his voice carried the weight of a command. "No," he said quietly, stepping closer until I could feel his presence pressing against the air between us. "I want you to live. If you keep reading this, you will want to dig into it and it's going to destroy you."
The words landed like stones in my stomach, heavy and final. I watched as he held the journal up high. His hand hesitated for a moment, almost reverent, before he lowered it and walked to the small metal trash bin by the desk.
He set it down gently, as though laying a body to rest. "You want closure?" he asked, glancing back at me. "Burn it."
I blinked, sure I'd misheard him. "What?"
"Burn it," he repeated, his tone harder now, leaving no space for argument. "Watch it turn to ash. That's how you heal."
The breath caught in my throat. The room felt suddenly too still, too narrow. "You can't be serious."
He met my gaze without flinching, every line of his face carved with worry. "I'm dead serious," he said. "You're my daughter. I'm not watching you drown in someone else's death."
For a long moment, neither of us moved. The faint hum of the ceiling fan filled the silence between us, and the journal lay there, Leo's words, his memories, his ghost, waiting for flame.
He struck a match from his pocket, habit, old firefighter reflex. The flame danced, flickering gold and dangerous.
I snatched the journal from his hand. "Don't."
His eyes met mine. "Olivia—"
"No! You don't get it. This is all I have left of him."
He let out a long, heavy sigh. "Then I hope it doesn't eat you alive."
He dropped the match in the bin and walked out, the door slamming behind him.
The silence that followed was louder than his anger.
I sat on the bed clutching the journal to my chest, feeling the ghost of his words under the leather cover.
Leo's voice echoed in my head, 'They found out.'
I turned to the last page again, to the rough edge where the paper had been torn. The light from my lamp caught something faint, something dark smeared along the ripped corner.
I leaned closer. My pulse slowed.
It wasn't ink.
It was darker, tackier.
A smear of dried blood.
For a long moment, I couldn't move. My hands went cold, my stomach twisted.
He'd written something here. Someone had ripped it out.
Why would he tear out the pages? Or… had someone else done it after he died?
A hundred thoughts raced through my head, colliding and scattering. 'The Society.' 'Harlow.' 'Secrets.' 'They found out.'
I closed my eyes, pressing my forehead against the journal. The smell of old paper and something metallic clung to it.
Dad thought burning it would bring peace. But I knew the truth didn't burn, it bled.
I wiped my face and stood, walking to the window. Crescent University's lights were visible even from here, the tall towers could be seen.
That's where he'd lived. That's where he'd died.
The place that took him wasn't going to keep its secrets forever.
I whispered the words before I could stop myself. "I'm coming, Leo."
The promise hung in the air, small but unbreakable.
No matter what my parents said. No matter what it cost.
Crescent University thought it had buried the truth.
It hadn't met me yet.