Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Inside, I see stacks of folded paper, yellowed with age, thin enough so the handwriting on the other side looks like ghostly scribbles bleeding through.
I stare at the box with Mason Law’s voice on replay in my mind—until something brushes my elbow and I just about bust right out of my skin.
When I look up, Lucas stands by my side, holding a pair of nitrile gloves.
I take them with a grateful nod and snap them on, then take the box from the woman and retreat back to the patrol car.
The urge to read the letters wars with professional obligations to treat this like crime evidence—because it is.
No prints, no smudging, so I carefully set an evidence bag on the hood of the car and place the box on top before I settle down and pick up the first sheaf of folded pages, peeling them open.
They’re definitely older.
Handwritten.
All blue, sloping ink, a light and loopy feminine style with a slightly older feel I can’t explain. The top page is dated over twenty years ago—October, just like now.
Dearest,
It’s freezing today. Cold enough to feel the loneliness, your absence, though I know why I can’t see you.
Not right now. Maybe not ever.
I told you I won’t deceive myself about what we’re doing.
I’m lonely, yes... but I’m also convenient for you.
You know how much that makes me smile.
Being yours. Something to distract you from your responsibilities. From how cruel life must be in that cold, loveless house, where you said all the money in the world can’t buy you any joy.
Oh, I can tell when your smiles are false. When you turn on the charm for everyone else, playing the part of the dearly respected man for the public.
I’m not fooling myself.
I’m just the only one who understands how lonely, how sad you truly are. It’s enough for me to believe you love me right now.
Enough for you to believe you love our beautiful little girl and the child growing in me right now.
Will you come tonight? I don’t dare send the ultrasound, just in case she stumbles on it. This letter is damning enough, but there’s a little bit of a thrill in the risk, isn’t there?
It’s a girl, beloved.
Another girl.
Perhaps I’ll name her for one of Shakespeare’s ladies, too.
Hoping to see you tonight,
-Your angel
What the fuck am I reading?
I numbly scan the pages of the first letter again.
Something in the back of my mind screams like a startled coyote.
Call it an instinct that’s trying to make me look at what’s right in front of my dumb fool face. Only, everything else shuts the fuck down and refuses to acknowledge the terrible truth.
You already know what this means.
It’s veiled, yes, but it’s not hard to decode.
This is a letter from Angela Sanderson to Montero fucking Arrendell.
After the birth of her first daughter, while she was pregnant with her second, and—
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck, oh shit, oh damn.
I shove my knuckles against my mouth, barely stopping my fingers from clutching violently at the pages and crumpling them into dust.
Angela Sanderson had an affair with Montero.
A long-running arrangement, from the sounds of it.
Ophelia. Rosalind.
Montero’s daughters.
They’re both Arrendells.
Which means Ros is about to marry her own half brother.
And I get the sickest feeling Aleksander knew it all along.
“Hey, Cap, what’s wrong? What the hell did it say?” I hear Lucas asking, but I can’t answer.
I dig my feet into the mud, fighting to stand up as my mind strains, wondering what the hell to do with this waking nightmare.
22
ONE LITTLE SECRET (OPHELIA)
I’m asleep on the sofa when the door bangs open with a crash loud enough to stop my heart.
I bolt up with a startled scream, my eyes snapping open.
The look on Grant’s face when my vision clears doesn’t stop the panic slashing through me.
What happened?
What is it now?
I stare at him, standing in the doorway with his face ash grey, his brown eyes stark, his chest heaving like every breath is cement.
“Ophelia,” he snarls roughly. “We have to find Ros. Right fucking now.”
“Why? What’s going on?” I clutch my throat, trying to tame my rabbiting pulse. I’m already scrambling for my phone with my other hand. “What’s wrong? Is she hurt?”
“No, not exactly, I don’t—oh, fuck.” He swipes a hand down his face and steps into the house, moving with a weariness that seems to have aged him a thousand years.
My heart slows to the dull thump of the door slamming shut in his wake.
Grant sinks down on the sofa next to me and fully buries his face in his hands.
Holy hell, what happened?
“Grant?”
“I don’t know how to fucking say this, Philia. I don’t. But I can’t keep this from you,” he rumbles.
I shake my head painfully.
“Keep what?” I’m frozen, phone pinched in my hand, thumb hovering over Ros’ contact. Cold dread squeezes me like a snake. “Grant, you’re scaring me...”