Pen Pal(6)

After that’s done, I sit down at the kitchen table and make a list. I always think best with a pen in my hand.

POSSIBLE EXPLANATIONS





Someone is fucking with you.



I immediately cross that out, because obviously someone is fucking with me. The question is why? And why now?

This Dante person saw the article in the newspaper about the accident

He smells money

He’s trying to pull a lonely-widow scam



As soon as I write that down, I think I’ve nailed it.

He’s in prison, after all. To get there, he had to do something bad. So the man has what could be politely called compromised morals. He probably trolls the obituary section of the newspapers and sends these letters out to new widows all over the place, hoping one of them will take the bait and write him back so he can strike up a relationship and seduce her into sending him large sums of cash.

But the letter is too weird to be scam bait. And too specific. He should’ve just said he was a lonely guy looking for a pen pal, not that he could still taste my skin.

Or that he knows the shape of my soul.

What does that even mean, anyway? What does any of it mean?

“Nothing,” I mutter, glaring at the envelope. “It’s a fraud.”

I specifically don’t address the mystery of how a letter arrived on my kitchen table without me knowing how it got there—again—because I suspect I’m having more lapses in memory and brought it in from the mailbox myself.

I take a little consolation in the fact that the letter from the mysterious Dante had no overtones of hostility. Admittedly creepy with all the “I know you” business, at least he isn’t threatening me harm.

Though I suppose he wouldn’t be able to. I think I read somewhere that prison correspondence is monitored. He’d probably get in trouble if he tried to send a violent threat through the mail.

Not that he’d have a reason to send a threat. Michael didn’t have any enemies, and neither do I. We’re your average middle-class married couple, both overworked and overtired so our idea of fun is snuggling together on the sofa to watch a movie on Friday nights.

Was. Our idea of fun was watching a movie together.

We’ll never do that again.

The sudden tightness in my chest makes it impossible to breathe. Dizzy, I rest my head on my forearms and listen to the rain tapping against the windows like a thousand fingernails.

“He’s just a jerk felon who’s trying to prey on a vulnerable woman,” I tell the tabletop.

It doesn’t make me feel any better. In fact, it makes me feel worse.

Who does this guy think he is, sending me this crap?

Whoever he is, he clearly has mental problems.

I sit up abruptly. Maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s not trying to run a scam on me at all.

Maybe the mysterious Dante is simply out of his mind.

I’m not sure which I feel more: empathy or trepidation. I mean, if the poor guy is only locked up because he’s got some kind of mental illness that wasn’t diagnosed and he should really be medicated, not incarcerated, that’s one thing.

On the other hand, he did something to land himself in prison. What if it was something violent?

He could be dangerous.

I remove the letter from the envelope and read it again. An odd impulse makes me lift it to my nose and sniff.

A faint whiff of cedar and wood smoke fills my nostrils. And something else, earthy and musky, like the scent of a man.

Or an animal.

The thought unsettles me. I fold the letter quickly and slide it back into the envelope, then take it upstairs to my bedroom and stuff it in the back of my underwear drawer.

Then I go back downstairs, log on to my computer, and do a search for Seattle roofers.





When the doorbell rings two days later, I’m in the laundry room, folding towels. I head to the front door, hoping an actual person will be there this time when I open it.

There is.

And he’s everything sweet, smiling Eddie is not.

His height and size are immediately intimidating, as is his stony expression. He has dark hair, dark eyes, and a dark beard covering a square jaw. Wearing faded jeans, battered work boots, and a hunter green button-down shirt rolled up muscular tattooed forearms, he looks like he just wandered out of the forest after building himself a cabin from trees he cut down with an axe.

To my great surprise, I find him sexy.

It’s surprising because he’s not my type at all. I like the clean-cut, Wall Street type. A man with an advanced degree or two, excellent hygiene, and a solid understanding of how a 401(k) works.

This guy looks like the founder of an underground fight club.

He stands in the doorway gazing at me in intense silence until I say, “Can I help you?”

“Aidan.”

When it becomes apparent that’s all he’s going to say, I assume he’s looking for someone named Aidan who he thinks lives in this house.

“I’m sorry, there’s no Aidan here.”

His stony expression flickers with what appears to be contempt. “I’m Aidan. From Seattle Roofing.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the white pickup in the driveway with the company name stenciled on the side in red letters.

Embarrassed, I laugh. “Oh! Sorry, I thought you weren’t coming until next week.”