"Murder," I whispered, the word tasting like copper in my mouth.
I stared at the screen Oryn held. The warrant was flashing in bold, red letters. FIRST DEGREE MURDER.
"He died instantly," I murmured, the memory of that rainy night three years ago surfacing through the haze of shock. "Marcus Thorne. The car wrapped around a telephone pole on Route 9. The police ruled it an accident. Hydroplaning."
"Lysander is rewriting history," Cyprian said. His voice was no longer the roar of the office performance; it was ice-cold. He walked to the window, looking down at the winding coastal road. "He handed them a diary. A confession. He claims you cut the lines."
"I didn't write a diary. I haven't written in a diary since I was twelve."
"It doesn't matter what you wrote," Cyprian said, turning ba
