The morning after his funeral, I discovered a thick, sealed envelope in my mailbox. My name was written across it in flowing blue ink.
I stood on my porch with the early sun behind me, hands trembling, convincing myself it was likely just a note of appreciation from his family for helping coordinate the memorial.
That’s the sort of courtesy people extend in towns like ours, where appearances matter and silence hides more than it reveals.
But the letter wasn’t gratitude.
Richie came out onto the porch behind me, squinting against the light.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“It’s from Mr. Whitmore.”
I passed him the letter. He read it in silence, his lips barely moving.
“My dear girl,
If you’re reading this, I’m no longer here.
