Page 46 of Returned Mail

“I’m not throwing you all away.”

I say as I close the drawer and walk away.

Chapter Thirteen

Mia

It's been two weeks since I moved into the loft, and the letters keep arriving.

The first one after move-in was easy to ignore. The second one, too. By the time the third arrived, ignoring them started to feel like a choice. One I'm not sure I want to keep making.

On Thursday, I'm walking toward the building stairs when I notice a letter slipping out of my mailbox. Apparently, the mail carrier didn't have the energy to shove it all the way in.

Relatable, honestly.

I slide it out and feel that now-familiar tightness in my chest when I see the handwriting. Same cream envelope. Same careful blue ink. Same return name.

George Hale.

I stand in the lobby holding it a second too long. “Stop having feelings about a stranger's mail.” I mutter, tucking it under my arm with a grocery flyer and a coupon booklet I absolutely will not use.

Upstairs, the loft smells like coffee and vanilla from the candle I forgot to blow out this morning, which is not concerning at all. The afternoon light is starting to angle through the big window, turning the living room soft and gold.

I set the grocery flyer down. Then the coupon booklet. Then the letter. It sits on the counter, one more envelope in the small, quiet stack.

“Welcome to the shrine,” I tell it dryly, as I add it to the others.

Then I pull off my shoes and wander into the living room, pretending I didn't just mentally calculate how many days it's been since the first one arrived.

Twelve days. Four letters.

Whoever George Hale is, he's persistent.

I drop onto the couch with a sigh and let my head fall back against the cushion. Work was long, my commute was terrible, and my brain feels like a cluttered desktop with too many tabs open.

Still, one file keeps popping to the front.

George Hale — unresolved mystery.

I should do what Monica said. Throw them away. Or at least stop paying attention. But my hands won't do what they're told.

Eventually, I get up and go to the kitchen.

I open the fridge and stare at the contents. Half a rotisserie chicken. Two yogurts. Some questionable lettuce. A bottle of white wine I keep telling myself I'm saving for an occasion.

“Well,” I tell the fridge. “This is bleak.”

I grab the wine. A single glass won't hurt. I fill it halfway and take it to the couch.

I need a distraction.

Me: So, there's something going on, and I need emotional support.

Lyann: What's wrong? Need me to call you? Drive there? Commit a felony?

Me: No felonies. It's just that there are letters here at the apartment.

Lyann: Letters?