The pink water had long gone cold when she found him.
Why is it pink? was her first question, answered when she saw the gash on his submerged wrist.
He must have taken pills too, she thought, since the cut looked superficial.
Insanely, she wondered if he’d used her bubble bath while running the tub.
Only after she had found the hidden folder on his hard drive and had seen some of the pictures did she find the shoeboxes in his closet, close-packed with journals full of densely written script in some kind of cipher.
Letters to me?
Letters to himself?