She nodded.“Okay.”
I reached over and squeezed her hand.“Thank you.”
“That’s what your assistant is supposed to do,” she teased.
“Oh, if only Isabella could hear that,” I murmured, rolling my eyes.
The phone rang.I waved her off.“Go home.I’ll finish this.”
She hesitated at the door, then left quietly.
The silence pressed in.
I pulled the crate toward me, rolling it to the side of my desk.The overhead lights buzzed faintly as I began sifting through the rest of the mail.
Bills.Junk.Letters from old clients, most of them stale and irrelevant.I worked through them mechanically, my mind drifting.The weight of the decision to close the agency pressed into my chest—a strange mix of relief and loss.Until a postcard slipped from the pile and fluttered to the floor.
I picked it up.
A dusk-lit view of Bourbon Street.Golden light spilling across wet stone.A saxophonist froze mid-note.
I flipped it over.
I’m safe.
No signature.No address.
But I knew.
Relief hit me hard enough to make my knees weaken.Brittany was alive.A tear slipped free before I could stop it.
Maybe peace was possible.
Drawing a shaky breath, I reached back into the crate, determined to finish.I tossed half of it into the trash—advertisements, magazines Ray had ordered, meaningless paperwork.
And then my hand brushed against an envelope.
And froze.
An ivory envelope.Worn at the edges.My name, in handwriting I would recognize anywhere.
Ray.
Ice slid through my veins.
No return address.No postmark.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Peyton,
If you’re reading this, things ended the way I feared they would.
The room blurred.
They’re still watching.
The words pressed in on me, heavy and suffocating.
