“Nice to meet you,” I manage.
“So, box 127.” Janet’s expression is guarded as she studies me. “I was told you were asking about it?”
“I’ve been writing letters there,” I explain. “For years. To someone I—to someone important. But recently, the responses I’ve been getting have been…strange. And I just, I’d like to know who’s been collecting my letters.”
Janet’s jaw tightens, but there’s a sliver of kindness in her eyes that tells me she isn’t the villain in this story. “I can’t give out information about box holders. Privacy rules.”
“What if I’m the person she’s been addressing the letters to?” Valen asks.
Janet’s eyes widen a fraction, then she shakes her head, sadly. “Your name isn’t on the rental agreement. She had to fill out additional paperwork to receive the letters, but she is the only owner of the box.”
So, Janet does know who owns the box.
“I understand there are rules,” Valen says carefully. “But if you could just confirm—has there been anyone collecting mail from that box recently? In the last six months?”
Janet hesitates. I can see the internal debate playing out across her face—policy versus something else. Concern, maybe.
“Look,” she finally says, lowering her voice even though we’re alone. This is what I love about small towns. No one is immune to gossip. “I’m not supposed to say anything. But that box? It’s been…weird.”
“Weird how?” Chief butts in.
“The woman who used to come for it—she was nice. Polite. Always had a smile. Then, about a year and a half ago, it’s likeshe became someone else. Still looked the same, but her energy was completely different. She became hostile. Demanding.” Janet shakes her head.
“A year and a half ago?” I ask.
Janet clucks her tongue and nods her head. “At first, I thought she was just having a bad day. But then it kept happening. My mama had dementia, you know, and the hot and cold was so similar that I got worried. I kept an eye on her more than usual. Every time she came in, she was nastier. The last time, she actually threw a package at me when I asked for ID. I told the sheriff, but she hasn’t been back since. The sheriff contacted the address we had on file for her, but it was a dead end.”
So much for not sharing information. She just gave us so many clues. “Did you see what was in the package she threw at you?”
“No. She was just in here checking the box and using our tape, muttering about hand delivery. I went over to see if she needed help because she was frustrated that her fingers kept getting stuck in the ribbon she was attempting to tie down.”
“Ribbon?” Valen asks.
“Looked like a wedding present, but she was real jittery around it. Didn’t want me anywhere near it.” Janet just keeps dropping bombs.
“Janet?” a voice calls from the front of the store.
“I need to—” Janet gestures toward the register. “But listen. If that woman is who you’ve been writing to, she’s not the same person she was ten, five, even two years ago. If her mind’s slipping, she needs help. If it’s not, someone flipped her mean switch, and whatever you’re looking for, I doubt she’d give you out of spite. That’s the vibe she’s laying down these days, ya hear me? Best of luck to you.”
She hurries away, leaving us standing in front of box 127.
“Valen,” I whisper. “What if it’s not Miriam?”
Wrecks barks, then attempts to chase after a Maltipoo who just entered the store in the safety of its owner’s arms. Chief takes the leash from Valen and heads outside, while Valen ushers me to a quieter corner.
“What are you saying?” he asks.
“Miriam and Terra were identical twins. One kind. One cruel.”
I close my eyes and count backward from one hundred. Am I making up things that don’t exist? Is this my author brain running interference with reality?
It wouldn’t be the first time.
“Terra’s dead, Clover.”
When I open my eyes, I find uncertainty in his.
He also has more questions than answers lurking in his shadows.
