Synopsis

**Lina Marchesi doesn’t remember the night her fiancé died. She only knows he drowned near their private beach house on the Amalfi Coast—and that she was found barefoot, bloodied, and unresponsive in a boat nearby. There were no signs of foul play, and Lina, an American expat novelist, hasn't been able to write since.

A year later, under the weight of trauma, gaps in her memory, and public suspicion, she returns to the same village—not to heal, but to hide. But the quiet isn’t quiet for long. Whispers trail her in the market, her old neighbors keep their distance, and someone keeps leaving pages from her *unfinished manuscript* on her doorstep—pages she doesn't remember writing.

Enter **Milo Caruso**, a former war photographer turned reclusive innkeeper with his own ghosts. He’s disfigured from an explosion, hiding out in the crumbling hills above the sea. Their paths cross when Lina takes up residence at his isolated property, and tension builds—first in silence, then in sharp, probing conversations over wine and cigarettes.

Their connection is messy, magnetic, and deeply flawed. Milo is blunt and emotionally unavailable; Lina is unraveling but seductive, using charm as armor. They orbit each other—drawn, repelled, resisting. But both know what it’s like to live with something unspeakable.

As Lina pieces together her fractured memory, it becomes clear that her fiancé’s death wasn’t as accidental as the police claimed. And someone in the village wants the truth buried.

And as she and Milo fall into a love that’s as brutal as it is tender, Lina begins to ask herself the scariest question of all:

**What if she killed him?**

The market was quieter than usual. The rain had driven the tourists indoors, leaving only locals and ghosts behind.


Lina hadn't planned to see Rosa again. But she returned anyway, something complicit in her feet, dragging her back to the stall near the stone wall, where the scent of basil and sea salt still hung like a memory.


Rosa stood there, unbothered by the drizzle, arranging tomatoes like something sacred. Her eyes lifted when she saw Lina. No surprise. Just recognition—and something darker.


"I didn't come here to apologise," she said.


"Good," Rosa replied. "Because I wouldn't believe you."


"I need to know," Lina continued. "What do you remember from that night?"


Rosa's hands paused. She turned fully now, arms crossed over her apron. "You mean the night you screamed at him on the balcony loud enough for the whole village to hear?"


"I remember thinking he'd finally done it," Rosa said. "Pushed you too far. And you—God, you looked like fire, Lina. Not broken. Raging."


Lina's voice dropped. "Did you see the boat?"


Rosa nodded. "I saw you run out. I saw him follow. I didn't follow you both. I should have."


She stepped around the stall slowly and stopped close enough for Lina to smell the citrus on her skin.


"You loved him like he was air, and he treated you like glass," Rosa said. "It wasn't a surprise that he died. It was a surprise that it took so long."


Lina blinked, stunned. "You think I killed him."


"I think he broke something in you," Rosa said quietly. "And something snapped."


A long silence stretched between them. Then Lina spoke, hoarse. "I don't know what happened. I swear to you—I remember the fight. The waves. Then I woke up soaked and alone. That's it."


Rosa studied her, eyes like flint. "Maybe that's worse. Not knowing."


"I think about it every time I close my eyes."


Rosa reached into the crate behind her and pulled out a folded envelope. She handed it over.


"He left this with me the day before he died," she said. "Said it was 'just in case.' I wasn't going to give it to you. But maybe it's time."


Lina took it with trembling hands. "Why now?"


Rosa's voice was cool. "Because if he really meant to hurt you that night, then maybe what happened wasn't murder. Maybe it was escape."


Chapter 17 - Rosa’s Version