This place looks like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. It has a red clapboard exterior with hunter green trim, a hand-painted sign swinging in the breeze, and a bulletin board out front that’s covered in flyers for church suppers and lost cats. Through the window, I see jugs of self-serve coffee lining a shelf.
It’s charming. Idyllic. Exactly the kind of place where nothing bad should ever happen.
So why does my skin feel like it’s crawling right off my body and making a run for it?
“Are you okay?” Valen moves his hand to my lower back as we approach the door.
“Mm-hmm.” I breathe through my nose. “Something just feels…wrong.”
Like I’m being watched. The same feeling I had on my porch in Happiness when those packages would appear. The same prickling at the back of my neck that told me someone was out there, following me, studying me. I scan the windows of the building across the street, searching for a curtain twitching, a shadow moving. I find nothing, yet the sensations don’t fade.
“We can leave,” Valen says warily.
“No,” I gasp before I get a handle on my voice. “I need to know. I need—” The door opens before we reach it, a bell jingling cheerfully overhead, and a startled yelp strangles my throat as a man emerges.
He’s mid-forties, wearing brown Carhartt pants and a flannel shirt, carrying a canvas bag full of groceries. He smiles on the threshold, and I narrow my gaze while burrowing deeper into Valen’s side.
This man wouldn’t be a stalker. Serial killer, maybe.
“Morning, folks. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
Yup, totally a killer.
“Yes, sir,” Valen says when I offer nothing.
The stranger holds the door open for us, and I slide through, my back scraping the opposite side of the doorframe on my way by.
“He’s not the enemy, Clove,” Valen whispers in my ear while Wrecks attempts to sit on top of my feet. “I’ve had years of training, years of learning what motivates people and what makes them snap. Not everyone is out to get you.”
Now I feel like an idiot. Seeing the worst in people is what’s kept me safe, but it’s also what keeps me isolated from life.
I nod. “I’ll get my murder brain under control.”
His kisses the side of my head. “I love your murder brain, Honeybee. But there’s a time and a place for it. Right now, we’re just here for information.”
The store smells like coffee, wood polish, and something sweet, like maple syrup. There’s a woman behind the main counter, ringing up a customer, and toward the back is another counter with a small sign that says US Post Office.
“Can I help you?” the woman at the register calls over.
“We’re here about a PO box,” Valen says, his voice carefully friendly, while gently nudging Wrecks forward.
“Yup, box 127. Janet King is expecting us.” Chief does that thing where he sticks his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans and rocks back on his heels. It not so subtly shows off the badge he’s not supposed to still have, but no one has been able to wrangle it free of his hands yet.
The woman’s expression shifts into something decidedly less friendly. “Oh. Yes.” She glances at the customer she’s helping. “Give me a minute?”
We nod, wandering toward the post office counter while we wait. It’s barely more than a closet—just a small counter, a wall of maybe twenty brass PO boxes, and a scale for weighing packages. Everything is neat and orderly.
Box 127 is in the middle row, slightly to the left of center. It’s ordinary in every way, except that it holds more secrets than a confessional.
I’ve been writing to this box for fourteen years.
Why did I wait so long to come here? I should have been stronger. It’s just a…box.
“Clover.” Valen’s voice is soft. “Talk to me.”
I don’t trust my voice, so I nod instead, and Wrecks plops down between my legs with his head and paws resting on one of my feet. One of these days, I’m going to break a leg, and it will be all his fault.
The woman joins us, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m Janet. Co-owner of the store. The post office counter is technically my husband’s domain, but I help out when he’s busy.”
