Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Addressed to Elias Bishop, the return address Emily Shaw’s from Knoxville, it was postmarked three days after Emily’s death.
I shifted, turning my back to Sylvie and Miss Carmody. Sylvie didn’t say a word, but moved a second later, sliding to the side to fully block Gertie’s view of the envelope in my hands. I was officially done being annoyed that I was stuck with a civilian podcaster as a partner. Sylvie wasn’t trained in my business, but her instincts were spot-on.
I tore open the envelope. Inside, I found a sheet of Creed Global stationery. It was blank except for a single line written in Silas’s handwriting.
Internal > MP > 102398.delsh.active
I stared down at the single line for a long moment, trying to decipher it, before tucking it back in the envelope and folding the whole thing in half. Questions zinged through my head. Why was this cryptic message postmarked after Emily’s death and sent to me, from her address, to a P.O. box set up by Silas? Based on the handwriting, I wanted to think Silas had sent it to me as a message. But what did it mean? Could Emily’s killer have sent it to draw us out?
None of it made sense.
The envelope went in the zippered pocket of my jacket. The rest of the junk mail I dumped back in the bin.
“Time to go,” I said, squeezing Sylvie’s shoulder with my free hand.
She shot a wide smile at Miss Carmody. “It was lovely to meet you. Nothing is more fun than talking to a listener in person.”
“You made my day.” Miss Carmody winked at Sylvie and turned to me. “It does my heart good to see you again, Eli. You don’t have to be a stranger.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Being here had brought more grief than nostalgia. I had two more stops to make before we headed back to Atlanta, and after that, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be back. This town was my past, not my future. I only nodded in response, my throat a little tight.
Sylvie jumped in to spare me from saying anything else. “If Eli gets any mail in that box, do you think you could give us a call? I know it’s not your job to call when mail comes in, but we’re not local and—”
“Say no more.” Miss Carmody sent a wink my way. “You get anything, I’ll call the number on your card.”
“Appreciate it,” I managed, hefting the bin of mail and turning to the door.
Sylvie said another thanks and looped her arm through mine, practically pushing me to the door, maybe sensing how ready I was to get the hell out of the post office.
I shoved the bin in the back seat and climbed in, fastening my seat belt as Sylvie got in beside me.
“Where to now?” she asked.
“Home,” I said, forcing the word out through my tight throat. “Before we leave, I want to go home.”
Chapter Fourteen
ELI
“Iwant to drive by my old house.”
A million words wanted to spill out after that, a confusion of grief and memory. I didn’t even know if I really wanted to see it. I was glad Sylvie was with me, so I didn’t have to do this alone. And I was half tempted to make a U-turn, head straight for the highway, and get the hell out of here. What was the point in going down memory lane? My mom, dad, and Annie were gone. Nothing would bring them back. And yet, I kept driving.
I didn’t unload everything piled up in my heart onto Sylvie. It was there, smoldering but still contained. I knew she’d listen. She might even have something comforting to say. But I couldn’t. Thirteen years. I hadn’t fully expected the way being in that post office, seeing Gertie Carmody again, would bring it all back.
I’d had a good childhood, the best family, and then they were gone.
Both my parents had been only children; their parents long gone by the time of the accident. When they died with my sister, there’d simply been no one left. No one to pull me back here, no one to make me remember, push me to talk about it all these years later. It had become a habit to push it down, to tuck it away.
It had been so long, and still, I didn’t miss a turn on the route from the small post office to the neighborhood we’d lived in. I turned right, then left, then left again, down almost identical streets not unlike the neighborhood where we’d found Emily Shaw’s parents’ home. One-story brick ranch houses, decent-sized yards, neatly kept. Nothing run-down and nothing particularly grand. Normal families living normal lives.
I pulled to a stop in front of a house on the corner, so like all the others. The oak tree I remembered was in the front yard, though the swing hanging off the branches was new, as was the basketball hoop in the driveway. Someone had painted the front door a lively red, the shutters charcoal gray. Everything was fresh and neat.