Magnus had parked on the gravel sweep at the end of the turn-off before Wentworth-by-The-Sea, and ran up toward the lighthouse, the rain in his eyes.  He chased his friend, desperate, and shoved aside the half-rotted door before he sprinted up the curved stairs.

'Eli!' Magnus opened the door onto the lighthouse balcony.

'No.' Eli backed up against the railing, his knuckles white. 'I didn't mean for it to happen. She fell, and - I didn't know what to do.'

'How did she get into my dining room?' Magnus wiped rain drops out of his eyes.

'I carried her in, the key under the bootscraper. You thought that she was coming in. I was leaving.' Rain slicked Eli's hair against his face, as though watercolors were streaked across a page.

'And that was you? The clues? The fingerprints?'

He nodded.

Ophelia ran up to the lighthouse, and ran into the lighthouse keeper's cottage. Her feet smacked against the slate flagged floor. Her footsteps echoed around her again and again as she circled up the lighthouse stairs.

Eli bit the inside of his cheek. 'I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Tell Ophelia I - I - ' 'Tell Ophelia what?' She stepped out onto the balcony, her chest heaving.

Eli swallowed. 'I - I - I love you.' He swung his legs over the rail.

'Eli no!' Magnus lurched forward.

Eli jumped.

He fell.

He fell.

He fell.

They ran down the stairs, their footsteps a capohany of gunshots.
Ophelia's hand was on the railing, her other hand over her mouth as she wept. Magnus was just behind her, as he had been their whole life, ready in the wings to pick up the pieces every time Eli tore it.

They reached the first floor, and ran through the cottage, out onto the rocks.
'Stay here.' Magnus pushed Ophelia down by her shoulders, so she sat on a low slab of granite. He crouched low, and clambered over the outcropping to where Eli lay. Blood pooled around his head, and his left arm was bent under him. One eye was open, glazed over with a film of blood. Some trickled from his mouth, and coated his hair.
Magnus wrapped his arms around Eli's waist, and pulled him up. He could feel the medallion that Eli always wore, the cameo locket of the Muses. He crawled up the rocks, and slipped, and crawled up again. His foot caught in a crevice, and his ankle twisted. He screamed, and had to let go of Eli.

'Get a rope!' He cupped his hands around his mouth, and prayed that Ophelia would hear him.

He huddled over Eli's corpse, the rain against his face. A half-coil of rope knocked against his shoulder, and he lost his balance. Magnus grabbed onto a rock to balance himself, and his palm sliced open on some barnacles. He wrapped the rope around Eli's waist, and began to lift it up, tugging on the rope to tell Ophelia to pick up the slack. After eons, they reached the top, Eli and his friend.

Ophelia cradled Eli's face in her hands, the blood mixed with her tears as she closed his eyes. 'I love you too. I love you too.' She touched her forehead to Eli's, then chastely kissed it.

They were crumpled at the base of the lighthouse, the three of them, alone as though nothing more than a crushed sculpture by a forgotten artist.

Author's Note:
It later came out in the trial that Ophelia had convinced Eli to take the blame. He had hidden the tapes from the security camera in a paper bag with the clothes that Ophelia planted. The police found the hearth fender and the andirons where Ophelia buried them in her family's cellar. She was giving twenty to life, no parole, and her brother was indicted as an accomplice, but he pled that it was an accident.

The Thawne's were clearly shocked by what Eli did. The funeral was not a little awkward.

I watched all of this from a clinic in the Berkshires, Dr. Shaw recommended it.

Thank you to all of those involved, who walked with me every step of the way, from recovery to the first steps in the direction of writing.  To protect the lives and privacy of the innocent and not-so-innocent, I have changed all the names, most of the locations, and a couple of the dates.  The investigation obviously took rather longer, but I hope you understand about momentum and perpetual motion from the Newtonian Laws of Thermodynamics. 

In the end, this is not a mystery, or a comedy, or even a thriller.  It is simply a tragedy.  A tragedy of justice, a tragedy of understanding, and and tragedy of hope.  I would like to thank you for your patience, and may you find a brighter morning than you had today.

Regards,

Magnus Stark-Woolf