"I never sent you a letter like that. Or any letter, for that matter." He jerks his foot, tapping it against the metal grate insharp, annoyed bursts. "But I got one from you, delivered by my dad because you didn’t have the guts to give it to me yourself."
"What are you talking about?"
He scoffs. "Now who's playing dumb?"
"I never wrote you a letter, Rein."
"Yes, you did. I read it. And I know it was from you because it was in your unmistakenly awful handwriting."
I don't know what to say. I never wrote Rein a letter. He may be a lot of things, and he's disappointed me beyond belief, but I know he's not a liar. So what the fuck is going on here?
"I'm really confused," I murmur, my anger retreating, sadness returning to take its place.
"You're not the only one."
Okay, so I guess it would be stupid of me to not entertain the fact that there is a chance hecouldbe lying to me. I've watched every single season of every single version ofThe Traitors,so I've seen what good people are capable of doing.
But we're not playing a game, so I don't think confirmation bias is at play here. I genuinely don't think Rein is lying to me.
So then, how did I get a letter from him?
And how the fuck did he get one from me?
9
Rein
I'm more confused than I've ever been in my life. What is it with these shitting letters? And that's another thing, too…
"Since when did we ever write letters to each other?" I ask.
Beau scrunches up his face. "I never thought about it before, but, yeah, that is a little weird."
It's not a little weird. "It'sveryweird," I correct him.
Nothing is adding up here. It hadn't crossed my mind until now, either, but why the hell didn't we call or text? Who the hell writes letters? What is this?Pride and Prejudiceor something?
"Wait a second. Did you say your dad gave you a letter from me?"
I nod. "That's right."
"That doesn't make any sense. Your dad hates me. Always has. Probably always will. I have no relationship with him, so why would I give him a 'letter'?" He puts air quotes aroundletter.
Thoughts race through my mind, whizzing by in a blur, too fast for me to latch onto any of them, creating an unwelcome, foreboding, sensation in my gut.
"That is strange," I say slowly.
He's frowning, deep in thought. Some time passes, and then he blinks rapidly, lifts his head, and turns to me. "Ask your father."
"Ask him what?"
"When I gave him the letter."
"Huh?"
"If you got my letter from him, ask him how and when I gave it to him."
"That's… That's actually a good idea."
