The twine.
The jars.
The orderly stacks of labels.
The journal.
The letters.
The ribboned paper bag sitting on my table as if it’s not a thing that just happened.
I walk to the table on legs that don’t quite feel like mine and sit down too hard, chair scraping against the floor with an ugly sound.
My hands hover above the bag.
I don’t touch it again. I can’t.
Instead, I stare at the journal and letters like they’re going to scold me for being emotionally incompetent.
“Okay,” I say aloud. “Okay. Back to… mystery. Back to family secrets. Back to something that doesn’t have Wyatt’s face attached to it.”
I reach for the letter.
My fingers are calm. That’s the annoying part. My fingers work fine. My body is still functioning. My brain, however, is…
A puddle.
I flatten the paper. I read the first line.
And then I read it again because my eyes are moving over the words, but nothing is sticking.
I try to force it. I try to make my mind do what it always does when I’m scared: latch onto something solvable.
But my heart keeps dragging my thoughts sideways.
Wyatt’s nervous hands.
Wyatt’s careful voice.
The way he said “properly,” offering me gentle andreal.
My chest tightens again, sharp and sudden.
“Stop,” I mutter, rubbing at my sternum, trying to smooth out the ache. “Just stop.”
I look down at the letter and try to pick out the clue like Wyatt would.
Your family has always been good at keeping things tidy on the surface…
There is someone else who knows…
Look where she worked when she didn’t want to be interrupted…
My breath catches.
Not because of the letter.
Because my brain decides, very helpfully, to supply a different memory instead?—
