“Shit.” He brings his knuckles to his mouth. Kisses them.
I can’t help but think of that almost moment between us. How badly I wanted it to happen and how grateful I should be that Isla stopped it. Should be, but oh God, I am not.
Hungry in a way that has nothing to do with food, I swallow hard and hold out the envelope. Wells glances up at me through his lashes—knees bent, shoulders steady—and if I weren’t already sick with nerves, I might actually be salivating at the sight.
“It’s a letter from Elspeth,” I say. “She must not have given it to you before she passed.”
“What the fuck?”
“I know.”
“Did you just find that?”
“No.” My voice comes out small. “Last week. When I was digging through the attic for ledgers and pictures. I should’ve brought it to you sooner. I’m sorry.”
He yanks the envelope from my hand, then takes a long breath through his nose. I can only imagine he’s counting to ten inside his head, resisting the urge to say something outlandishly rude.
“I didn’t read it,” I tell him quickly. “Just looked at the outside.”
He pushes to his feet, walks past me to the window seat, and sits. The lantern beside him flickers low. He doesn’t ask if he can read it in front of me, but he does. Slides the paper out, unfolds it slowly, carefully.
I watch his face for the crack, the shift, the tell. Nothing. His brow doesn’t furrow. His jaw doesn’t harden. He breathes, chest heaving, and keeps reading.
“What does it say?” I ask.
He folds the letter again with the same precision, tucks it back into the envelope.
“Wells.” I take a step forward. “What did it say?”
He doesn’t answer, shakes his head.
“It’s not a secret, is it? I mean, it was in the attic with the rest of them. Anyone could’ve—
“I don’t need to hear the excuses.”
“Fine,” I say. “But if you’re mad, just say so.”
He stands. “I am mad.”
I flinch. “You are?”
“I am,” he repeats, sharper now. “I’m tired. I’m cold. I’ve spent all day tying down shutters and blowing insulation into a wall that was already fixed last winter. There’s a storm coming,and I do not have the energy to explain why holding on to someone else’s letter for a week is a shitty thing to do.”
“I know it was wrong. And I said I was sorry. I just—couldn’t. I kept thinking maybe I was sparing you. That you didn’t need to carry the weight of one more goodbye. That whatever she wanted to say, she should’ve said it while she was alive, while you could still answer her.”
He looks at me like I’m an excuse pretending to be a person.
“So, what was in it?” I try again. “Kind words? Instructions? A confession?”
An amendment to her will? Something about the trust? The answer to everything he’s been waiting for?
He says nothing.
“Don’t do that,” I say. “Please. I gave it to you, and now you’re freezing me out.”
“You handed it over because the guilt finally got too heavy,” he says, low and even. “Because it’s easier to confess than to carry it. Must be all thatempathyyou have cooped up inside you.”
He’s mocking me. That’s what makes it hurt.
