Page 62 of Postmarked December

How had Nick found out that she loved the meatloaf casserole? That Toby had done all the cooking? She’d delivered that casserole to so many people. All it took was Nick asking around and one person revealing that, and he had enough to create a recipe book. While they were delicious, the sugar cookies hadn’t been the same as Toby’s. She’d chalked the difference up to her lack of baking practice, but now she wondered if the recipe had been his at all.

And what about the photos in the album? A fuzzy memory returned.

“What’s that box outside the door?” she asked Toby, coming home from work one day. It was sealed shut and had the words “For Pick Up” written in Toby’s scratchy and nearly illegible handwriting.

“Oh, more files I’m putting into storage. I’ve got a guy picking them up.”

Then, he’d gotten really sick, and she’d never followed up to see who the courier was. Did the correct person take it? Or had someone else swiped it—someone like Nick? Toby said himself that they didn’t have enough security in that building. Would the photos from her album or the cabin key and unpublished songs have inadvertently been put into the box? How long had Nick been planning this to get what he needed?

She wondered again if he’d been watching her. He could’ve been in the cabin. Were there cameras in there to record her reaction? Her mind went wild with what-ifs.

When Marion returned with their coffees, she unloaded everything she’d pieced together.

Marion stared at her, eyes wide. “Well, if you wanted a reason to sue him, I’d think you’d have one. That is, if you could prove any of it.” She scooted her drink out of the way and leaned forward. “Do you think he’s really capable of all that?”

“A week ago, I’d have said absolutely not, but I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

She held in her tears, but they’d be coming soon enough.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Heather hadn’t let it all really sink in until she got home, but once she’d left Marion and was back in the quiet of her apartment, she fell to the floor, sobbing. She’d been there for the last few hours. Marion had offered to come back with her, but she’d said she wanted to be alone.

What she’d refused to think about at any length until this moment was the actual fact that Toby hadn’t really planned anything for her this year. The notes were never from him. She closed her eyes, the silence that had been there since his last breath suffocating her now. She wanted answers as to why Nick would do this to her, but with every new detail she got, she was more devastated. He had managed to make an already heart-wrenching holiday unbearable. He’d ripped her heart in two, and she didn’t know how to pick up the pieces. But it wasn’t over. That book would come out, slashing open the wounds of this deception every time she saw it in the stores.

If she were being honest with herself, Nick creating the messages made the most sense. How could Toby have planned all that, given how sick he was? Her one last truth of Toby’s final act of love had been shattered. Nick had completely broken her. And for what? Money?

Her journal responses to Toby about his messages were useless now. She hadn’t been talking to Toby. She’d been replying to Nick, a dishonest, devious person.

Nick had toyed with her emotions, preying on her sadness. Given the depth of his scheme, what other lies was he planning to publish in that book? Would she have more battles to face? Would she end up fighting for Toby’s reputation? Just the idea of it exhausted her.

She had to get herself together and confront him.

Eventually, the tears subsided the angrier she got. There was no way she was going to let him think he could get away with this. She was going to demand that he abandon the book, or she’d take him to court.

She wiped her eyes with her forearm, a new sense of determination driving her. She ran her fingers through her hair, went into the bathroom, and got herself together. She straightened her sweater and jeans and looked at herself in the mirror—decent enough. Then she left her apartment, got back in the car, and drove over to Nick’s.

She seethed for the entire fifteen-minute drive, going over scenarios of what she’d say once she was face-to-face with him. He’d hurt her in unimaginable ways and she was absolutely crushed, but she had to have enough courage to give him a piece of her mind, and she’d let her anger achieve that.

Once she arrived at his house, she pulled into the driveway and got out of the car. With a rigidity to her steps, she made her way to the front door and rang the bell.

Ophelia barked inside.

The door opened, and Nick’s face lit up when he saw her, his wide smile emerging—still playing the part. “Hey,” he said, wonderment in his eyes as he searched her face.

“Don’t give me that,” she spat as she pushed past him into the house.

Ophelia barked at her.

She reached out a hand to the dog and the dog growled.

“Even the stories of your sweet dog were fake.”

“What?” Nick pawed at the dog, looking confused.

Ophelia barked at her incessantly, despite his attempts to calm her down.

“Ophelia,” he commanded. “Settle.” But she wouldn’t stop barking.