Page 116 of Sinners Reunion

I bite my lip and think harder. “Maybe these were copies of the originals. For posterity or something.”

There’s one way to find out.

I pull my hands from beneath my thighs and scurry back to the closet. I won’t actually read the letters. Nothing more than a quick glance to verify ink pen versus printer ink. Then I’ll leave it alone and just wait until King gets back. Never mind the glaring neon sign reminding me no one has a copy machine sitting in their RV. I cling to hope.

My hands shake as I ease the thick cardboard rectangle off the shelf. If he catches me digging around in this box, he might actually get mad at me in a way I can’t brush off with a promise of pleasure. When I’m this close to finally getting my man, is it really worth it?

I look down at the box.

Fuck it.

I pull off the lid and pluck a folded missive from the top. I set the box on the nearby counter, then open the letter. My eyes land on random words in the center of the page.

you said on the cliffs that day

I snatch my eyes away from the paper before I can read any more of the message. That should have been just enough to tell if it was a copy or an original. It should have been.

Had I been paying attention.

“Fuck, Josie. Get your shit together.”

I close my eyes, shake out the jitters, and remind myself I must look for clues, not people’s private, intimate words. With a shake of my head, I open my eyes and look at the letter.

cliffs that day so long ago. You said,

With a quiet squeal, I close the letter and look away. It’s just unfortunate that my brain betrayed me and chose to jump right back to the same spot. Now that I’ve gotten more of the same sentence, I have to see how it ends. Then I can try to process the next alarm bell blaring in my mind: These aren’t copies. These are originals.

So again, why does King have them?

“Just satisfy your curiosity and close the box, you nosey bitch,” I whisper.

I unfold the paper, find my spot, and stuff down the guilt as I satisfy the aching need to know what was said.

Father, we’ll be traveling to the Grand Canyon come tomorrow. I’ve written my letter in advance, as I already know Jim will ask it of us anyway. And for once, I have something to say. Best I get it out now⁠—

Okay, so I went back a little too far. So sue me. It’s not like I’ll read the whole thing and discern which Carter sibling wrote it. That will still remain a secret.

Best I get it out now before I ask Kindra to elope in Vegas.

“Fuck.”

Okay, so I know who wrote this letter. So what? I’ll just stop reading it. My fingers are already folding it up, and I’m stepping toward the box to stuff it back inside. And I’m opening the fucking paper because I have so many fucking questions.

I’ve decided I don’t need to finish this trip. I’m no longer bound by the desire to take your life. A funny thing happened when Jim told us where we’d be going. After I tried to get him to change venues, that is.

Yes, I’m still terrified of heights, Father. But it reminded me of something you said on the cliffs that day so long ago. You said, “Ezra, whenever you’re scared, just remember this moment. I might have steadied you, but you walked to the edge.”

The paper falls from my hands as an uneasy feeling snakes through my guts. I’ve heard that somewhere. Who said that? And when? Is it from a television show? I hear it in a familiar British accent, but is that just because this is Ezra’s letter?

Then it clicks.

“King said that to Ezra today when we stood by the canyon. Holy shit.” I lick my lips. My mouth has gone dry. “Is King . . . Daddy Carter?”

I steady myself on the counter and raise the letter to my face.

I no longer need you to steady me. The woman by my side has healed wounds she didn’t know about. When I feel like I can’t step to the ledge, I lean on her. So I don’t need the rage anymore.

I fan myself. I think I’ve read enough. He’s letting go of his anger, and good for him. But now I’m not sure how to feel about anything anymore.