Page 63 of Postmarked December

“Adorable,” Heather snapped.

“She’s protective, and you’re coming in like an erupting volcano. What in the world is going on?”

He tried to take her coat, but she refused, lurching away from his grip.

“Where should I begin?” she said. “We’ll start basic. You ghosted me after we got home.”

“I assumed you ghosted me. You never texted me,” he said, hooking a finger into Ophelia’s collar, the dog relentless.

Another lie.

“Yes, I certainly did,” Heather said, pulling up her unanswered texts and showing him.

His brows pulled together. He went over to the sofa and patted for Ophelia to join him. She obeyed, her suspicious gaze lingering on Heather. He gestured toward another chair, but Heather remained standing. With him sitting, Ophelia’s barking finally subsided.

“I never got them,” he said.

The honesty in his eyes made her falter. She peered at her two messages. Each one had appeared to send, settling quietly into the empty thread. There was no warning, no error, just her two texts suspended on her phone alone, unseen and unread on the other side.

“How could you not have gotten them? And even if you didn’t, I know you had my number. Why didn’t you call me?”

“You know I had your number?” he asked, his smile fading.

Got him.

“You called me twice about Toby, and I told you I wasn’t interested.”

“How did you know that was me?” he inquired, asking her again to sit.

She ignored his suggestion.

“I did try to call. Only once.” His voice was softer. “At first, I thought you were busy with the holiday, but days went by and I missed you. I called, but it went straight to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. After all you’d told me about losing your husband, I figured you’d changed your mind and didn’t want to talk to me, so I was giving you time.”

“I didn’t get a notification that you called at all.”

His face crumpled. “That’s so weird. Could I see your phone?”

She pulled back. “No.”

“It’s like you blocked me or something.”

Understanding dawned.

“Hi. Don’t hang up. I’m writing about Toby⁠—”

She’d told him she wasn’t interested, hung up the phone, and blocked his number.

“I think I did block you, actually,” she said. “When you called saying you were writing something about Toby.”

He blew air through his lips. “Well, I’m glad we got that worked out.”

“Okay, so what? I blocked you. That doesn’t add up to even an inkling of what you’ve put me through.”

He stared at her, his lips parted, looking completely baffled. Playing the innocent woe-is-me card. Unbelievable.

“A reporter called me yesterday. He said he got a tip. Someone overheard you and another person on the phone. I know an anonymous donor paid fifty thousand dollars to commission a biography about Toby that you are writing. Want to tell me why you failed to mention this on the plane?”

Clearly caught, he closed his eyes and hung his head. Then, with labored movements, he addressed her. “Heather. Please. Sit down.”