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I assured him he would be able to read them, told him I loved him, and settled in for a night of reading. I opened the first letter; the one dated the earliest.
My dearest love, my heart aches, I miss you so much.
After only a few letters my heart ached. My aunt and Max were madly in love. Their love poured from the pages of the letters.
There is an emptiness in me when I’m not with you. I go through the motions of life. I talk, walk, eat, sleep, but all seems meaningless without you.
Several passages brought tears to my eyes.
I never meant for this to happen and yet I thank God every day that you came into my life. I will always cherish the memory of that rainy day we met in that small café in Paris and shared the only table left. I fell in love with you the moment I saw you. I had no right to. I wasn’t a free man and yet I couldn’t stop myself. You stole my heart, and I could see in your beautiful eyes that I stole yours.
We tried, oh how we tried, not to get involved, to walk away and never see each other again. Fate, however, had different plans and when we were thrown together again and again, I knew I could never let you go. I loved you far too much, far too strongly, far too selfishly.
It was growing late, so I took a break. I let Mo out for the night while I changed into my flannel pajamas, then I grabbed the box of tissues from my bathroom and got myself a glass of white wine before letting Mo back in. He curled up in front of the fire I lit, the night having turned cold before returning to the letters.
I didn’t know if it was hours or only minutes later that my cell rang, I was so engrossed in the letters.
“On break, how are the letters?” Ian asked, sounding in a hurry.
I sniffled. “Your uncle writes the most beautiful love letters.”
“I wish I was there with you, Pep. I cannae wait to read them.”
I heard someone shout to Ian.
“I’m sorry, Pep, I have to go. I needed to hear your voice. Mind if I come for breakfast?”
“I’ll make waffles,” I said, his favorite.
“Eight good?”
“Perfect.”
“Love you, Pep,” he said and was gone before I could tell him the same.
I looked at the letters and my heart broke for my aunt and Ian’s uncle. To love that strongly and not be able to be with each other had to be torture. No wonder my aunt sold the property to Max. It was the only way they could share a life—as neighbors.
29
Mo’s head shot to the door from where he sat beside me waiting for a piece of the bacon I was cooking. I figured it was Ian—since Mo didn’t bark—arriving early, with it being only 7:30, and as eager to see me as I was to see him.
“What did I tell you about keeping your door locked?” my dad said, shaking his head after shutting and locking the door behind him.
“I’m expecting company,” I said, offering an excuse, though a senseless one.
He parked himself at the kitchen island. “Still no excuse.”
I filled a mug with fresh coffee and handed it to him, then returned to the bacon that was almost done. I figured he was here to talk about me and Ian, since he hadn’t had a chance to talk with me privately about the news that I was actually—still to my shock—in love. But I was wrong.
“What’s up, Dad?” I asked.
“It’s the two murders, more so the first than the second. My gut tells me the photographer was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He also had an alibi for the Struthers murder. He was nowhere near here. He was probably giving it another try to get a photo of you and Ian, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he had gotten lost in the woods again.
“You think the murderer is working alone,” I asked, putting some bacon on a plate and placing it in front of my dad. He loved bacon but my mom limited his consumption of it for health reasons. I’d tell her later that I gave him some so she would know.
He immediately scooped up a piece. “That’s my theory at the moment. You know if Struthers lived here in the States, I could have his place searched and see what evidence, if any, is found. With him across the pond as they say, it makes it difficult. I have to rely on other people to tell me what they find or photos and while I’m sure they’re thorough—”
“It’s not the same as being there and seeing it for yourself,” I said, understanding how he felt.
