Page 54 of Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar 2)

I can’t do this. I can’t do this, Molly. I don’t want to tell funny stories about my best friend. I don’t want to talk about how much he loved my sister. Mostly, I’m scared I won’t know where to look when I’m standing in front of everyone. I guess to you. I’ll always look to you.

* * *

It doesn’t feel like I can do this right now, but I’ll look to you. And the right words will come.

* * *

Yours,

Finn

Eight

Finn

“Hey,” I answered Molly’s call. “What’s up?”

She sniffled. “I got another letter.”

My heart stopped. She was crying, which meant the letter was not a good one. Fuck. Me and my fucking letters. I couldn’t remember them all exactly word for word. I remembered their moods. About half had been written with a full heart. The other half, a broken one.

One of them was catastrophic. I knew Molly well enough to know that if she’d gotten that one, I wouldn’t be getting a phone call. She’d just never talk to me again. I’d thought about asking her not to open them, but it would be like telling a kid not to touch a bright, shiny toy placed right in front of them. Curiosity would get the better of her. Besides, I didn’t have that kind of pull with Molly. Not anymore.

She didn’t have to listen to me. She didn’t have to do me favors or trust me because I was her husband. That time had passed.

Which meant I really needed to find out who was sending them. In the past week, since we’d confronted Poppy, I’d studied the handwriting on the envelope for hours trying to place it but had come up empty. They were coming in order, and as long as that continued, I had a little time.

The last letter had shown up in Molly’s mailbox over two weeks ago. With every day that went by without another, I started to breathe easier, thinking maybe that was it. That maybe the person who’d stolen my most personal thoughts had reconsidered their actions.

But I’d used up my luck years ago, the day I’d found Molly.

“What did it say?” I stood from my office chair, already collecting my keys and wallet. I’d come in early today, hoping to get some office work done before noon. Then I was spending the day on field visits, reviewing a project bid with one client and meeting with another to get their signoff on the project we’d completed yesterday.

But depending on the letter, those meetings might have to be rescheduled.

“It was the letter you wrote after Jamie . . .”

Died.

My knees weakened, and I sank into the chair.

Of all the letters I’d written, that one I remembered the clearest. It was also the one I’d never opened after the day I’d folded it in thirds.

I found the strength to stand again. “I’m coming over.”

“You don’t have to,” she said. “I’m sure you’re busy.”

“I don’t want to talk about this over the phone. Are you home?”

“Yeah.”

“See you in a few.” I hung up and rushed out of my office door.

“Finn,” Bridget called as I walked past her open door.

“What’s up?” I stepped back, not going inside.

“Are you leaving? I thought we were going to go through those applications before lunch.”