The coded business card from my ammunition supplier sat on the nightstand. Nothing but a phone number and the image of a hunting rifle, the kind of thing that looked innocent enough if the wrong person found it. Successful meeting, solid deal negotiated, no complications. But all I could think about was her.
The old me wouldn’t have believed it either.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found Glitch’s number. The brother who’d supposedly been unable to track Indira down when she left. The one who’d asked if I wanted to skip this meeting. He clearly knew more than he’d been letting on.
The phone rang twice before his gravelly voice answered. “Jesus, Dutch, it’s three in the morning. Someone better be bleeding.”
“You knew.”
A long pause. Then a sigh. “Yeah. I knew.”
“You knew Indira would be in Montana and you didn’t tell me?”
“I tried to get you to sit the meeting out, remember? Suggested you send someone else.” I heard rustling, probably Glitch getting his laptop. “I wasn’t sure how you’d handle it. Thought maybe it was better if you didn’t know.”
“How long have you known where she was?”
“A while. I kept tabs on her social media activity. Her friend Emma posted about the bachelorette trip to Whitefish.” He paused. “I figured the odds of you two running into each other were low. It’s a ski town, not a one-bar village.”
“She walked into The Rusty Spur while I was waiting for the supplier.”
A long exhale. “Jesus. What are the odds? You talk to her?”
“No.” I ran a hand through my hair. “But she saw me. Saw me turn down a couple of club groupies who were throwing themselves at me.”
“And?”
“And I think... I think she was surprised. Like she couldn’t believe I did that.”
Another pause. “So what do you want from me?”
“I want to write her a letter.”
Glitch laughed. Actually fucking laughed. “A letter? What is this, 1850?”
“I’m serious.”
The laughter stopped. “Shit. You are serious.” A pause. “Dutch, she blocked your number. She moved states to get away from you. What makes you think she wants to hear from you?”
“Because of the way she looked at me tonight.” I stood up, pacing to the window. “Not angry. Not hurt. Curious.”
“Or she was just shocked to see you in Montana.”
“Maybe. But I need to try, Glitch. I need to tell her that I’m not the same man who fucked everything up. And I need to do it in a way that doesn’t feel like stalking or harassment.”
I heard him typing in the background. “Okay, but why a letter? Why not just... I don’t know, show up at her door? That’s more your style.”
I thought about my mother’s shoebox, those dozens of yellowed envelopes filled with my father’s words. The man he could only be on paper—vulnerable, honest, real. The man he’d never managed to be with her in person.
“When I was in Florida, my mom showed me something,” I said slowly. “Letters my father wrote her when he was in prison. Dozens of them.”
I stopped, the words catching in my throat. My fingers drummed against my thigh, restless. Glitch waited.
“She said writing was the only way he could drop his guard,” I finally managed. “No audience, no reputation to protect.”
Glitch was quiet for a moment. “And you think you’re the same way?”
I didn’t answer right away. My hand found my hair again, tugging at it. “Maybe I can do it in writing.”
