Harper sat back. “I get that. I’m not going to stop you from trying to find them. But I don’t want anything to do with it. Might take you a while anyway. They might not want to be found. You have to consider that.”
The expression on Frankie’s face changed into something unreadable. She nodded. “I did think about that. I knew it would be a possibility. But I started searching a while ago. And last week, I got an answer to one of my emails.”
Harper felt queasy. “And?”
“Our mother wants to meet us.”
ChapterTwenty-Two
Mitch had sketched out three pages of possible new book ideas. They were all trite and fairly boring, but maybe if he kept writing them down something fresh and original would appear.
Anything was possible.
He started a new sentence only to have his pen run out of ink. Had he written that much? It was his favorite pen. He had a box of them in his desk drawer, but he took running out of ink as a sign that he was done for the night. Might as well go to bed. He tucked the legal pad under his arm, picked up his phone, his cup, and stood.
Arlington’s letter slipped from the pad and fell to the deck floor. Mitch retrieved it and carried it with the rest of his things.
He put his coffee cup in the kitchen sink, then took the legal pad and pen into his office and left them on the desk. He almost left the letter there, but he ended up taking it into the bedroom with him.
He deposited the envelope on the nightstand as he changed for bed. Tonight, he was going to get some real sleep. He had a new hardback, a psychological thriller by a debut author his publisher wanted him to read for a quote, and he was sureThe Girl Who Ranwould knock him out faster than any pill.
His usual hot shower was followed by a quick trip to the kitchen, where he made a cup of warm milk with honey and a dash of cinnamon in it. Not something he usually drank, but Jeanie had sworn by it when she couldn’t sleep. He set the cup on the nightstand along with the book and Arlington’s letter, then climbed into bed.
Propped up on pillows, he opened the book to the first page and rested it on his bent legs. He took a sip of the milk. It was all right. Tasted better than he’d expected. The smell carried pleasant memories of Jeanie with it. Maybe the drink would help.
He started reading, trying to really focus and give the words his full attention. He didn’t give out cover quotes unless he could be honest. That meant he had to find something about the book worthy of praise.
Few made the cut. It wasn’t because he was overly critical or trying to keep anyone down. He was just hard to impress. He was jaded from years in the business. He recognized that about himself and by now, his publisher ought to recognize it, too. Which meant they thought this book was something special to send it to him.
He was halfway through page five when he stopped to drink more milk. The book was…fine. The phrasing was good. The writing was fairly tight. He was really trying to keep an open mind but so far, it all felt like it had been done before.
A woman alone, running for her life through a dark forest (sometimes it was desolate back alleys in some big city), being chased by some nameless psychopathic killer. She would inevitably end up dead. In the next chapter, the reader would meet the fearless but overworked and world-weary police detective (or the occasional FBI agent) who would eventually track down the killer.
The detective would have their own past wounds to deal with, their own personal issues that drove them to seek justice. Many times, a killer that had gotten away. Occasionally, it was trauma in the form of a loved one’s death. Every so often, that death had been caused by the nameless psychopathic killer from Chapter One.
It wasn’t a bad formula. People who loved thrillers probably expected this kind of thing. And it worked when an author found an interesting way to make the formula their own. Or when the author had a particularly readable voice that shone through.
This book was just okay. He read on, making it to the end of Chapter Two before he set it aside. He’d finish it and do his best to come up with a quote that wasn’t a lie. He had standards, but he also needed to keep his publisher happy.
He wasn’t reading any more of it tonight, however. He grabbed his phone. He checked his email, then set the phone down and drank the rest of the milk. Still no response from Kyle about the sunset picture. Nothing new there.
Mitch put the empty cup on the nightstand and reached for the light. Arlington’s letter lay there, beckoning.
He touched the envelope. He needed to sleep. This letter was probably not the way to do that. Going back to the book would be a better solution.
But the envelope was already in his hands. He slid his finger under the sealed flap and opened it. He pulled the folded pages out, but just held them. The swirls and whorls of Arlington’s handwriting were faintly visible through the paper.
Dread settled over Mitch. A premonition that there was going to be something awful revealed in the words he was about to read. That was ridiculous. Arlington had never been anything but a positive influence in Mitch’s life.
But these pages were all that was left of Arlington. The only new interaction he’d ever have with the man ever again.
He hated that. The finality of it.
He couldn’t put off reading the letter forever. It was time to find out whatever Arlington had wanted him to know.
Sighing deeply, Mitch unfolded the pages.
Mitch, my boy, I hope this finds you well. I imagine it won’t, since the delivery of this letter hinges on my demise. So if you’re reading it, I have shuffled off this mortal coil. Such is everyone’s fate. None of us avoid it.
