"No," Leon muttered and shook his head. The pink diary felt heavy in his hands, its silver-embossed name seeming to pulse against his skin. "It would be an invasion of privacy."
He placed the diary carefully on the bedside table as if it were a live explosive, positioning it exactly where he'd found it.
The temptation was a cold knot in his stomach, but the memory of the digital warning—she knows—was a stronger deterrent. For now.
He walked to the bathroom, washed the blood—from the blood—from his scraped knuckles, the gritty ash from his face, neck, and chest. He stood there watching as the grey and red swirled down the drain.
He scrubbed with the sponge until his skin was raw.
Drying off with the blue towel, he exited the bathroom. The air still hummed with the aftermath of his rage and the distant storm.
