Chapter 18

The kitchen was dark. Joshua flicked on a light switch.

The letter lay on the table, bracketed by the hurricane lamps they’d burned at dinner last night. A small silver key rested at the foot of the paper; it resembled one of those keys you might use to disengage a padlock.

Joshua did not immediately pick up the letter and read it. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to.

The lies Rachel had told lately . . . her inexplicable crying jag earlier that afternoon . . . his own, growing sense of the ground shifting underneath his feet . . . it all blended into a dread that churned in his gut like rotten food. He would not have been more frightened of the letter if it had been delivered by a messenger with wicked horns and fiery eyes.

Burn it, a quiet, firm voice counseled. Or send it through a paper-shredder. You don’t want to read it, man. It’s gonna knock your ass out.

At a glance, he noted that the letter was inscribed in black ink, in Rachel’s neat handwriting. She had used Moore Designs letterhead.

Finally, his hand trembling, he picked it up.

He started to pull out a chair to sit at the table—and inadvertently knocked the chair off balance. It clattered against the tile floor.

He was too nervous to sit, anyway. He set the chair upright and leaned against the counter for support.

He began reading.

Dear Joshua,

It is with the deepest regret that I’m writing this letter to you. I’ve prayed for so long that things would never come to this. But one lesson I’ve learned, unfortunately, is that prayers sometimes go unanswered.

There’s a lot about me that you don’t know, baby. I’ve lied to you about many things in my past. I never lied with the intention of hurting you. I lied because I was ashamed of my past. I lied to protect myself. Most of all, I lied because I was afraid of losing you.

But it looks like my past has finally caught up with me. So I’m going to be leaving, for a while. This is for your safety, mine, and most of all, the safety of our baby. (Yes, I truly am pregnant with your child. I would never lie about that.)

As terrible as it will be for us to be apart, this is the best decision for our family. You must trust me on this. It is for our protection.

I can’t tell you where I’m going, and I can’t say when I will be able to come home. I wish I could tell you these things, but I can’t.

Please don’t try to find me, or to contact me. I will get in touch with you when it’s safe. Again, this is for our protection. Please, trust me on this.

I can’t begin to put into words how sorry I am that things have turned out this way. I love you SO much . . . I’m crying as I write this. I hope that when I can finally tell you the truth about me, you will be able to forgive me for everything I’ve done. I don’t know if you ever will, but that is what I hope and pray for.

While I am away, I must caution you to be careful. I’ll say it again—BE CAREFUL. I’ve left you a key. It will unlock something that I have a strong feeling you might need soon. I wish I was wrong . . . but you know how I sometimes get these feelings.

Joshua, I may have lied about many things, to my everlasting shame, but I never lied about how much I love you. Please know that, baby. You are the only man I’ve ever truly loved . . . and always will.

Your wife,

Rachel

P.S. Please take good care of Coco. I’ve left her with you as proof that I’m going to come home soon.

Joshua read the letter again. Then once more. Numbness traveled through him, starting from his fingers that grasped the letter and traveling in an icy current up through his wrist, into his arm and shoulder, through his chest, and then spreading through the rest of his body. Like an overdose of anesthetic.

His legs became deadened tree stumps. Swaying, his knees folding under him, he slid down the cabinet doors and dropped to the floor on his butt, barely registering the pain that stung his tailbone.

My wife’s left me.

He couldn’t believe it.