Page 29 of Splintered Line
“It’s a hit piece,” Maya says, slamming the knife down onto the cutting board.
The sound snaps through me.
“Someone is trying to crucify him.”
“Are they wrong?” I ask.
The room goes quiet.
Maya turns, her expression caught between surprise and irritation. “Zoë.”
It’s a warning.
“I’m serious,” I say, pushing myself up to a sitting position. The sketchbook slides to the floor, the cage staring up at the ceiling like it’s watching us back. “That car is totaled. If he was driving and walked away without consequences because of who his father is, why shouldn’t people be angry? That’s not nothing.”
“Because there’s no context,” Maya argues. “Because it’s anonymous. For all we know, he wasn’t driving. Or he got runoff the road. Since when do you believe everything you read online?”
“I don’t believe everything,” I say. “But I believe patterns. And Gio Rossi? He moves through the world like the rules bend around him. If someone finally aimed a spotlight at that, I’m not rushing to defend him.”
“Spotlight?” Clara asks, taking a slow sip of her drink. “Or accelerant?”
“Same result.”
“No,” Clara says. “It’s not. One exposes. The other just burns.”
I stare at the photo on Genny’s phone. The shattered windshield stares back. My chest tightens with anger first.
Then something else coils—restless and unwanted.
I shove it down.
“You’re enjoying this,” Maya says quietly, watching me.
“I’m focused,” I say, too fast. “I’m staying out of it.”
“Intervening how?” Talia asks.
She looks at me then, her dark eyes steady. “What would you do?”
“I do nothing,” I say. “That’s the point. I stay out of it. I let him take the narrative head-on if it’s true. Let him handle it. That’s what power is for.”
Maya exhales. “I saw him yesterday.”
My spine goes stiff. “Who?”
“Gio. In the café. Right after the whispers started.” She studies the ice in her glass like it has answers. “He looked… worn down.”
“Tired,” I repeat flatly.
“The tired that settles into your posture,” Maya says. “He said nothing. He just… absorbed it.”
“Because he’s guilty,” I say, “or because he thinks he’s insulated enough to wait it out.”
“Or because he knows saying the wrong thing makes it worse,” Talia murmurs.
I look at her. “You’re defending him now?”
“I’m saying silence can be containment as much as guilt,” she replies evenly. “Sometimes it’s containment.”
