The afternoon was filled with film crews and mock interviews, false faces and cardboard façades and even falser words: "That's so interesting! A wooden horse?"

"A Trojan Horse. I was working on it when the accident happened."

"And what's this?"

"Pieces of a Greek trireme. It wasn't exactly right. I had to start over."

"Wow. Now that's dedication. Still, it's all Greek to me." [Cue laughter].

Otherwise it was a day of planning, thinking, imagining the surprise ending I had in store for him. I read. I thought. I observed. In the late afternoon I saw them arguing on the patio, under a fly-eaten sun. Klara had her hair set in cascades of curls with that ridiculous white streak prominently displayed. Her eyes were glassy and distant like those of her porcelain figurines. "Are you alright?" Henri asked, his shirt open at the collar. But he was all business. The shark's tooth necklace was gone. A sheet of paper dangled from his fingers.

"Fine," she said.

"Do we have a moment? For a little communion with nature, so to speak?"

He didn't seem terribly enthusiastic about the prospect. He raised his eyebrows, but it was a forced expression—his eyes didn't go along. He looked almost relieved when Klara turned away. "I'm sorry, Henri. I'm not in the mood."

"Is something wrong?"

"Just stop haranguing me. Please."

Her vehemence took him by surprise. Even from my vantage point on the balcony, I could tell he was annoyed. He cocked his head to one side as if to behold her from another angle—as if that might clear things up. "I have never seen you like this."

"I suppose we haven't known each other very long."

"I had no idea you felt that way."

She sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm not feeling well. It's Milo again. He's . . . I'm worried. It's worse than usual."

"Listen. I am certain he will be better soon. In fact I'm sure of it."

"If only I believed that."

"Trust me. He will not bother us much longer. I will ask Marta to make you hot tea. Biscuits. Yes?"

She shook her head. "Maybe later. What do you have for me?"

He glanced at the paper as if noticing it for the first time. "Unfortunately it cannot wait," he said in a low voice.

"What is it?"

"The underwriting agreement. For the new television program we will do together. Leo wanted to have it finished before he drives tomorrow to New York."

"Just leave it. I'll read it over and give it to him myself."

"Yes, of course. Only…if you sign it now, I can save you the trouble. Especially in your current state, you should rest."

"Have you read it?"

"Everything is as we discussed. Here, use my pen. A quick signature on this line, and violá, it is done."

I watched her look at him for a moment—his earnest smile, his ponytail, his impossibly green eyes. The paper and pen were on the table. She bent over them like an old woman. Her hand shook as she scrawled her signature. Henri immediately snatched it up and folded it in half, beaming, while she slowly raised herself. "You seem happy," she said.

"I am happy for us both." He folded the paper into his shirt pocket. "And you? Are you happy?"

"Yes, of course."

Then he was gone, with a quick peck on the cheek, and I could see how she watched him—the hope and fear and loneliness in her eyes.

By the time I went downstairs she was shuffling among the roses, brushing her fingers against them, not enough to feel anything but like she didn't expect to—like she was trying to convince herself to care.

I strode into the garden myself. The first thing I noticed was the smell, a heady mixture of sweetness that reminded me of those times when, as a boy, I'd stuff a handful of assorted candies into my mouth. Still I put my head down and ventured deeper. The paths twisted and turned like a labyrinth between the flowers and perfectly manicured shrubbery. I saw Klara in the distance. I wasn't sure how to get to her. I soon found myself on the small hill. Several paths led into the woods, connecting the cultivated world with the wild. And there, in the pavilion, stood the old Roman with a ridiculous garland around his head.

"We can always move it back, you know."

I whirled around. Klara had appeared so far away just moments before, but I realized now it was just an illusion caused by all those winding paths. She was mounting the hill by a different way. She wore jeans and a red checkered blouse and was shading her eyes with one hand.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"The bust of Marcus Aurelius," she said between breaths.

"It's not Marcus Aurelius."

She chuckled—a sad kind of laugh. "Henri called him that and I thought it was funny. Don't you think it's funny? He does look so stoical."

"He looks nothing like Marcus Aurelius," I said, knowing I sounded pedantic but unable to stop myself. "Maybe you want him to be Marcus Aurelius because of all the things Marcus Aurelius did for the poor, but he looks nothing like him. And Marcus Aurelius persecuted Christians. He threw them to the lions. If you thought about it even a little bit I'm sure you wouldn't want him to be Marcus Aurelius."

She'd reached the pavilion by then. Her face gleamed in the sun. It was another moment before she spoke, this time in a lower tone. She must've heard something in my voice.

"You'll be happy to know that the filming's almost finished," she said.

"So what comes next?"

"You get your peace and quiet back."

"For how long?"

"As long as you need."

"You mean until the police return?"

She glanced away. I waited for her to reveal her knowledge of the diary, but she just bit her lip and said: "Why would they do that, Milo?"

"Did Henri find anything else here?" I asked, glancing toward the woods. "Any other so-called evidence of my guilt?"

She shook her head. "This was never about you. Or me. No one was responsible for their deaths. I've had time to think about it, and I realize that now. It was an accident. Accidents happen."

Was it that easy? I wondered.

"That's why I think it's time to put everything behind us," she went on. "I mean the garden shouldn't be a memorial to Mother and Father." She gazed out over it. From this vantage point I could see the intricacy of its maze-like paths—a perfect Henri creation. "We'll still talk about Mother and Father for the sake of context," she said, "but the garden is no longer about them. I thought, well, that it really should be about the living, not the dead. That we should care more about the living."

"How poignant," I replied.

"Henri and I are also discussing a business venture. I thought you ought to know. It would be our own television show about gardening. To demonstrate what's possible even in soils like this."

Could she really be so blind? "I suppose he's asked you to finance it."

"I don't see what that has to do with anything." She looked at me. "He wants us all to live in peace."

"And you still believe him? After everything?" I shook my head. "He's writing fiction, Klara. Sweet-sounding lies. About your future together. Just like he has about the past."

She narrowed her eyes. But didn't ask me to explain. And what would I have said? How could I have convinced her?

After all, I was a fiction writer myself.

Had she really seen my diary? That's what I wondered as I left her. Whether it was my own words coursing through her mind. Words that would have come as a welcome relief to her, that would have alleviated her own sense of responsibility. Words that were so easy to misconstrue, to see as an admission of my guilt, when guilt wasn't what they were about at all. They were about stories, about Father's new book, the one he'd been working on at the end: the long-awaited sequel to his most famous work. About the struggles to make it the greatest sequel ever written, one that readers everywhere would never forget. Could she ever understand that? No. She wasn't a real writer. She couldn't comprehend the sacrifices that had to be made in the name of craft, art, a higher calling—the loss of yourself that comes when the narrative takes over.