We need to regroup. Figure out a way to deal with this together. We need numbers. I thought we could hide but that was stupid, they’re everywhere. I was wrong. Being alone like this just makes it easier for them.
I’ll get in touch when we’re close.
My best to Katy and your boy.
Stay safe—
Richard Nettleton
“Who’s Richard Nettleton?” Gerdy asked, her chin resting on my shoulder, her breath at my ear. “And Emma? Friends of your parents?”
“I don’t…” the words trailed off my tongue. I read the letter again.
Gerdy picked up the envelope and studied the stamp. “The postmark says Newport Beach, California. July 16, 1978. Addressed to Josephine Gargery instead of your dad. I guess they mailed the letter here and she gave it to him? Weird.”
She dropped the envelope down on the coffee table and began kissing my neck. “Does it mean something to you?”
“No,” I lied.
“You don’t recognize the names?”
“No,” I lied again.
Gerdy nibbled at my ear. “Your new guardian did seem slightly crazy. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything at all. Maybe it’s some kind of joke. Nobody’s going to confess to murdering two people in a letter. That’s just dumb.”
My mind was racing.
Had Stella ever told me her parents’ names?
I don’t think so.
Nettleton.
Richard Nettleton.
The baby. Walking now. 1978.
Stella would have been two.
My best to Katy and your boy.
Your boy.
Me.
Stella only told me how her parents died.
Gerdy, kissing my neck again, slid her hand down the front of my jeans. “I know you don’t want to tell anyone about the insurance money, but I think we should celebrate. You, Mr. Thatch, are a very wealthy man.”
My eyes were still fixed on the letter. The handwriting. The words.
White truck.
White coats, everywhere.
“I thought you had to work today,” I managed to say.
“Not until two.”
