Chapter 20 #2
“I love how your mind works, Honeybee, but one of these days we’re going to fill your head with facts that are less…murdery.”
Frowning, I cross my arms over my chest. “My murdery mind is what pays my bills, thank you very much.”
“And you’re so good at it, but out here? Population 658? Stalking and murder probably wouldn’t be my first thought.”
“Did you see that road?” Indignation rises in my tone again. “Chainsaw-wielding killers are just waiting to jump out of there.”
“It’s okay, boy,” Chief chuckles, scratching behind Wrecks’s ears. “We got you.”
The dog nearly knocks Chief over as he jumps down and runs to the front of the RV, where he climbs into my lap. His weight is crushing.
“Jesus, Wrecks. Knock it off.” Valen leans over and attempts to tug him off me one-handed, but the more he pulls, the more firmly Wrecks presses his weight into my seat.
“Just…leave him,” I pant. “It’s fine. He’s just protecting me. He does this sometimes.”
“He’s crushing you.” Valen shoots a death glare at Wrecks, but the weight of my furry companion soothes me.
“It’s fine. I promise.”
We drive the rest of the way in tense silence, Wrecks whimpering occasionally, Valen muttering about puppy boundaries.
When we pull into the parking lot of the Peachvale general store, Wrecks refuses to get out of the RV.
“Come on, buddy,” Chief urges, tugging gently on his leash. “It’s just a store. Nothing scary.”
Wrecks plants his butt on my lap and won’t budge.
“Maybe he’s not feeling well,” Chief finally says.
“He eats shoes,” I point out. “And doesn’t throw them up.”
“Yeah, well, Wrecks has done stupider things. Wrecks, come.” The demand in Valen’s voice causes an involuntary reaction from me, and I’m suddenly acutely aware of how good a Dom he could be because my body wants to follow his command.
Even Wrecks falls into line and jumps down. I finally feel as though I can breathe as Valen takes control of the leash in one hand and clamps big fingers around my smaller ones with his other.
Daddy Valen is in control of both Wrecks and me, and I’m totally on board with that as he helps me out of the RV to face the Peachvale general store.
This place looks like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting.
It has a red clapboard exterior with hunter green trim, a hand-painted sign swinging in the breeze, and a bulletin board out front that’s covered in flyers for church suppers and lost cats.
Through the window, I see jugs of self-serve coffee lining a shelf.
It’s charming. Idyllic. Exactly the kind of place where nothing bad should ever happen.
So why does my skin feel like it’s crawling right off my body and making a run for it?
“Are you okay?” Valen moves his hand to my lower back as we approach the door.
“Mm-hmm.” I breathe through my nose. “Something just feels…wrong.”
Like I’m being watched. The same feeling I had on my porch in Happiness when those packages would appear.
The same prickling at the back of my neck that told me someone was out there, following me, studying me.
I scan the windows of the building across the street, searching for a curtain twitching, a shadow moving.
I find nothing, yet the sensations don’t fade.
“We can leave,” Valen says warily.
“No,” I gasp before I get a handle on my voice. “I need to know. I need—” The door opens before we reach it, a bell jingling cheerfully overhead, and a startled yelp strangles my throat as a man emerges.
He’s mid-forties, wearing brown Carhartt pants and a flannel shirt, carrying a canvas bag full of groceries. He smiles on the threshold, and I narrow my gaze while burrowing deeper into Valen’s side.
This man wouldn’t be a stalker. Serial killer, maybe.
“Morning, folks. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
Yup, totally a killer.
“Yes, sir,” Valen says when I offer nothing.
The stranger holds the door open for us, and I slide through, my back scraping the opposite side of the doorframe on my way by.
“He’s not the enemy, Clove,” Valen whispers in my ear while Wrecks attempts to sit on top of my feet. “I’ve had years of training, years of learning what motivates people and what makes them snap. Not everyone is out to get you.”
Now I feel like an idiot. Seeing the worst in people is what’s kept me safe, but it’s also what keeps me isolated from life.
I nod. “I’ll get my murder brain under control.”
His kisses the side of my head. “I love your murder brain, Honeybee. But there’s a time and a place for it. Right now, we’re just here for information.”
The store smells like coffee, wood polish, and something sweet, like maple syrup. There’s a woman behind the main counter, ringing up a customer, and toward the back is another counter with a small sign that says US Post Office.
“Can I help you?” the woman at the register calls over.
“We’re here about a PO box,” Valen says, his voice carefully friendly, while gently nudging Wrecks forward.
“Yup, box 127. Janet King is expecting us.” Chief does that thing where he sticks his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans and rocks back on his heels. It not so subtly shows off the badge he’s not supposed to still have, but no one has been able to wrangle it free of his hands yet.
The woman’s expression shifts into something decidedly less friendly. “Oh. Yes.” She glances at the customer she’s helping. “Give me a minute?”
We nod, wandering toward the post office counter while we wait. It’s barely more than a closet—just a small counter, a wall of maybe twenty brass PO boxes, and a scale for weighing packages. Everything is neat and orderly.
Box 127 is in the middle row, slightly to the left of center. It’s ordinary in every way, except that it holds more secrets than a confessional.
I’ve been writing to this box for fourteen years.
Why did I wait so long to come here? I should have been stronger. It’s just a…box.
“Clover.” Valen’s voice is soft. “Talk to me.”
I don’t trust my voice, so I nod instead, and Wrecks plops down between my legs with his head and paws resting on one of my feet. One of these days, I’m going to break a leg, and it will be all his fault.
The woman joins us, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m Janet. Co-owner of the store. The post office counter is technically my husband’s domain, but I help out when he’s busy.”
“Nice to meet you,” I manage.
“So, box 127.” Janet’s expression is guarded as she studies me. “I was told you were asking about it?”
“I’ve been writing letters there,” I explain. “For years. To someone I—to someone important. But recently, the responses I’ve been getting have been…strange. And I just, I’d like to know who’s been collecting my letters.”
Janet’s jaw tightens, but there’s a sliver of kindness in her eyes that tells me she isn’t the villain in this story. “I can’t give out information about box holders. Privacy rules.”
“What if I’m the person she’s been addressing the letters to?” Valen asks.
Janet’s eyes widen a fraction, then she shakes her head, sadly. “Your name isn’t on the rental agreement. She had to fill out additional paperwork to receive the letters, but she is the only owner of the box.”
So, Janet does know who owns the box.
“I understand there are rules,” Valen says carefully. “But if you could just confirm—has there been anyone collecting mail from that box recently? In the last six months?”
Janet hesitates. I can see the internal debate playing out across her face—policy versus something else. Concern, maybe.
“Look,” she finally says, lowering her voice even though we’re alone. This is what I love about small towns. No one is immune to gossip. “I’m not supposed to say anything. But that box? It’s been…weird.”
“Weird how?” Chief butts in.
“The woman who used to come for it—she was nice. Polite. Always had a smile. Then, about a year and a half ago, it’s like she became someone else. Still looked the same, but her energy was completely different. She became hostile. Demanding.” Janet shakes her head.
“A year and a half ago?” I ask.
Janet clucks her tongue and nods her head.
“At first, I thought she was just having a bad day. But then it kept happening. My mama had dementia, you know, and the hot and cold was so similar that I got worried. I kept an eye on her more than usual. Every time she came in, she was nastier. The last time, she actually threw a package at me when I asked for ID. I told the sheriff, but she hasn’t been back since.
The sheriff contacted the address we had on file for her, but it was a dead end. ”
So much for not sharing information. She just gave us so many clues. “Did you see what was in the package she threw at you?”
“No. She was just in here checking the box and using our tape, muttering about hand delivery. I went over to see if she needed help because she was frustrated that her fingers kept getting stuck in the ribbon she was attempting to tie down.”
“Ribbon?” Valen asks.
“Looked like a wedding present, but she was real jittery around it. Didn’t want me anywhere near it.” Janet just keeps dropping bombs.
“Janet?” a voice calls from the front of the store.
“I need to—” Janet gestures toward the register.
“But listen. If that woman is who you’ve been writing to, she’s not the same person she was ten, five, even two years ago.
If her mind’s slipping, she needs help. If it’s not, someone flipped her mean switch, and whatever you’re looking for, I doubt she’d give you out of spite.
That’s the vibe she’s laying down these days, ya hear me? Best of luck to you.”
She hurries away, leaving us standing in front of box 127.
“Valen,” I whisper. “What if it’s not Miriam?”
Wrecks barks, then attempts to chase after a Maltipoo who just entered the store in the safety of its owner’s arms. Chief takes the leash from Valen and heads outside, while Valen ushers me to a quieter corner.
“What are you saying?” he asks.
“Miriam and Terra were identical twins. One kind. One cruel.”