Page 39 of Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar 2)

I reached across the desk and took them from her hand. The handwriting on the envelopes wasn’t mine. “These aren’t from me.”

Molly didn’t say a word as I pulled out the folded paper from one. The minute the lined sheet was in my hand, an uneasy feeling settled in my stomach. There was something familiar about it. I peeled the ends apart and that sinking feeling turned to a lead rock.

“Where did you get this?” No one, especially Molly, was ever supposed to see this letter.

“It came last week.”

“Last week?”

“The other one came today.”

I tore into the other envelope like a madman, yanking out the paper and spreading it flat. It was the letter I’d written the night before proposing.

Oh, fuck. “How did you get these?”

“What do you mean, how did I get these?” Molly snapped. “You sent them to me. Why?”

“I didn’t send these to you.”

The word liar was written all over her face.

“Molly, I did not send these.”

“But you wrote them?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I wrote them.” For me. I’d never had any intention of giving Molly these letters.

“I don’t understand.” She sank deeper into the chair. “You wrote these but didn’t send them? So how did they show up in my mailbox?”

“I don’t know.” I ran a hand over my face, rubbing my jaw. The letters were in my closet—or were supposed to be—in a box I hadn’t opened in years. The last time had been after the divorce. I’d dumped my wedding ring in there, shoved it on the top shelf and pretended it didn’t exist.

“It really wasn’t you?” Molly asked.

“It really wasn’t me.”

“Oh.” Something flashed across her face, but before I could make sense of it, she was out of her chair. With her hair swishing across her shoulders, she raced out of the office and down the hallway.

“Molly.” I stood and chased after her, but it was too late. She’d already flown out

the front door.

“I’m late for work,” she hollered before getting into her Jeep and driving the hell off Alcott property.

“What the—” I dove for the phone in my pocket, pulling up her name. She couldn’t just leave like that. We had to figure this out. We had to find out who was sending my letters.

My letters. She’d gotten two.

There were more.

Many more.

My knees buckled. Someone had found my letters. Someone was sending them to Molly.

I played it out, each and every letter.

“No. Oh, fuck. No.”

I spun on a heel and sprinted for my office. I swiped the keys off the desk along with my sunglasses, then I bolted outside, locking up the office before running to my truck. I broke every speed limit on my race home.