Six months after Alan Crowe vanished, Miller’s Creek forgot how to talk about him. The town learned to wrap its silence in routine, to replace unease with habit. The station buzzed again, but the air carried something brittle, as if one wrong word could shatter it. People moved like they were pretending not to remember. They pretended well.Lee stopped pretending the day she found his notebook. It was buried beneath a drawer in the evidence room, between old case files and dust. No name on the cover, only a single mark, an ink line drawn straight through the center. She didn’t open it right away. She placed it on her desk and stared at it for hours, waiting for courage or forgiveness, whichever arrived first. Neither did.The bureau had closed the Crowe file two months earlier. Official record: Missing, presumed dead. The divers had searched the lake twice. No body. No footprints beyond the pier. His car engine was cold when they found it, keys still in the ignition, badge resting on