The Girl from Widow Hills - Megan Miranda Page 0,67

no one was inside. “After you,” he said.

I hesitated for a moment, thinking I could tell him I needed to swing by my office first, except I had my canvas bag with me, and I’d already claimed I was in a rush, on my way out.

I stepped inside, closed my eyes as the doors slid shut, pressed my back into the cold metal wall. Listened to the hum of the gears kicking in as the elevator lurched downward.

My stomach dropped as it started to move.

I counted the floors with each ding. Four—“It’s a real tragedy, about that man . . .”

Three—“My secretary said he wasn’t from here. Drugs, maybe? We’ve all seen the statistics rising. No place is immune . . .”

Two—“Are you going to stay out there still? With everything that’s happened?”

The elevator jolted to a stop just before the chime for the first floor. “Excuse me?” I said, stoic.

“Jessie said, well, it’s kind of in the middle of nowhere. And you live all alone.”

Jessie sure had a lot of information for someone I’d met once for twenty seconds.

“I’m not all alone out there,” I said, because at the end of the day, no matter what had happened in Rick’s previous life, I realized that was absolutely true.

ON THE WAY HOME, I paused my car at the entrance to my driveway. I hadn’t checked the mail in a few days. Not Friday night, when I’d stumbled in from the bar, and not Saturday, when I’d been brought back home by Elyse, watched over by both her and Bennett.

Now there were several days’ worth of envelopes and magazines stacked inside. I usually tossed half of it as junk. As I sorted through the stack, I found a handwritten envelope at the bottom of the pile.

There was no stamp, no return address. The only words on the front were my name. No street address, town, or state. Someone had dropped this here in person. I didn’t recognize the handwriting, though there wasn’t much to go on.

I tore the envelope open, pulled out a rectangle of unlined paper.

My hands started shaking before I even finished skimming the first sentence.

Olivia,

You may not remember me, and even if you do, you may want to forget.

Maybe you do remember and just don’t want to talk to me, and I understand that, too.

My name is Sean Coleman, and we were connected many years ago. I was involved in your rescue in Widow Hills.

I understand if you want to leave this all behind you, but I feel some responsibility toward you. I’ve come a long way to see you. I don’t want to scare you, but I need you to contact me.

Please, you can call me at the number below anytime. I’ll be staying at the Highland Inn through the end of the week.

Fuck.

I read it again. A third time. Trying to see something new each time.

Had Sean Coleman come here on Friday night to leave me this letter? Had it been sitting here, waiting for me to find it, ever since?

For one terrible second, I debated tucking it away with the pile of junk mail, slipping it into the trash can, pretending it never existed.

But he’d come here for a reason. He’d come here for me.

And it sounded like he’d come here to warn me about something.

RETURN TO SENDER

No Forwarding Address

POSTMARKED: LEXINGTON, KY

MAY 26, 2011

It’s time to tell the truth. You know what to do. And you know what will happen if you don’t.

CHAPTER 18

Monday, 7:15 p.m.

I HAD TO CALL DETECTIVE Rigby. Sean’s son, Nathan, deserved to know.

They both deserved to know, for different reasons.

I knew what that phone call out of the blue had been like—that your parent was dead. The way information could hurt, just from the fact that it caught you off guard, like whiplash. I pulled out his card. I hadn’t looked at it closely the first time: Nathan Coleman, Security Systems.

He looked the part. I could see him assessing the doorframes and windows. Determining how best to protect a property. It occurred to me now that I might need this type of service going forward.

I took a deep breath. I’d call Detective Rigby first; then I’d tell Nathan directly.

This letter . . . this letter meant there was no keeping it a secret anymore. This letter meant Nathan would know exactly who I was and why his father had come.

Everyone would.

Rick’s truck turned the corner, heading from the direction of town. As he approached, I slid Nathan’s card back into my