The morning after the fight, Celeste does something she's never done before.She asks permission."I'd like to show you something," she says, standing in the kitchen doorway. She's still in my shirt, her hair a mess, her face bare. No armor. No mask. Just her."What kind of something?""A record. Of everything I've done since you moved out. Everything I've been doing to try to earn back your trust."I set down my coffee."You've been keeping a record?""I've been keeping proof." She walks toward me, stops a few feet away. "Not for surveillance. For accountability. So you could see, if you wanted, that I wasn't lying when I said I stopped watching.""Show me."---She leads me to the office.Not the desk where I found the tablet — the other one, the small writing desk in the corner that I've never seen her use. She opens a drawer, pulls out a leather-bound journal.Not digital. Not encrypted. Paper."I started this the night you left for the hotel," she says, holding it out. "Every day
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