Chapter 1
“You locked my daughter inside the wall just because you were afraid I’d read these letters?”
Isabella stared at the paper in my hand.
That was answer enough.
Around my shoes, dozens of folded letters lay scattered across the east gallery carpet.
Some bore my name.
Others said CHARLOTTE.
A few had dates.
One said FOR HER FIFTH BIRTHDAY.
Another:
WHEN SHE ASKS ABOUT ME.
My hands went cold.
Eleanor.
My wife had been dead for two years.
Her handwriting had not changed.
Charlotte sobbed against Emma’s shoulder, clutching what remained of the rabbit.
I looked at Isabella.
“How did you know these existed?”
She shook her head.
“William—”
“Do not say my name until you answer me.”
Marcus tried to stand beneath the ruined restoration table.
A bodyguard pushed him gently but firmly back onto a padded bench.
I unfolded the letter bearing my name.
The first line stopped me.
William, if you are reading this, then Charlotte finally destroyed Bunny badly enough to expose my terrible sewing.
My throat closed.
That sounded like Eleanor.
Dry.
Warm.
Alive for one sentence.
I continued.
There are things I want you to know after I’m gone, but I refuse to make my death the loudest voice in the rest of your life.
I stopped.
Isabella’s face had gone white.
Why?
Then I read the next line.
If you ever love someone again, please do not choose her because she reminds you of me.
My eyes lifted.
Isabella stepped backward.
A memory hit me.
Our third date.
She had smiled over dinner and said:
“You shouldn’t love me because I remind you of anyone.”
The exact sentence.
Not similar.
Exact.
I looked down at the letter.
Then at her.
Another memory.
Isabella telling me Eleanor would have hated lilies at the foundation dinner.
Correct.
Eleanor had hated lilies.
I had never told Isabella.
Another.
The particular whiskey Eleanor bought me every December.
A private joke Isabella somehow knew.
Another.
Words.
Preferences.
Stories.
Little pieces of my dead wife appearing inside another woman until I called it extraordinary compatibility.
My voice became quieter.
“You’ve read her letters before.”
Isabella started crying.
Charlotte looked at me.
“Daddy?”
I folded the page slowly.
Whatever happened next, my daughter would not watch it.
“Emma.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Take Charlotte to my room.”
Emma nodded.
Charlotte reached for me.
I kissed her forehead.
“I’m coming.”
Then she whispered:
“Isabella said Mommy’s words belong to her now.”
Something inside me broke cleanly.
I watched my daughter leave.
May you like
Then I closed the gallery doors.
And asked my fiancée how much of our love story had been written by my dead wife.
