Page 38 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
“What happened? What was the mess?”
He shrugs it off. “Just something related to a jump.”
“The one where your chute didn’t open till the end?”
He cocks his head. “You know about that?”
“Truly mentioned it. She saw it on the news. I’ll confess my heart raced a little faster when I heard.”
His lips twitch in a grin. “Yeah?”
I laugh. “That makes you happy?” I swat his shoulder from across the table. “That your near-death experience affected me? Well, it did. So there.”
His cocky grin returns in full force. “You’re glad I’m alive. Admit it.”
I huff like it’s no big deal. “Sure, fine. I’ll admit it. You’re useful—you know, to help me shift any heavy objects I encounter as we go through the estate.”
“One should always be prepared for heavy objects.”
“That’ll be the name of your memoir.”
“I’m starting it tonight.”
“Tell me what happened with the jump though. How bad was it? Were you seriously injured?”
“My knee wailed like a banshee for the first couple days. But the docs examined me and said it was fine, and I guess I’m a lucky bastard. It hurt a few times in pickup games, but it hasn’t hurt one bit since then.” He raps his knuckles on the table. “Knock on wood.”
“You are a lucky bastard. Maybe that should be the name of your memoir.” I circle my finger, signaling a return to where we left off. “What did you do when you couldn’t talk to your dad?”
“I talked to Vikas Winters.”
“Is he like a surrogate father?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “No one could replace my dad. But I have to admit, I have turned to Vik from time to time. Once, when I ran into some trouble with my show and had to decide whether I wanted to renew it, I reached out to him. He was helpful and gave some good advice. I asked him about another matter recently too, not the jump, something else. He was a little harder to decipher on that one. So I kept turning to this letter from my dad, looking for answers between the lines.”
That brings us back to the start of the conversation. “Does that make you want to follow up on Edward and Greta’s letter more, or hand it over to the family? Since you’ve received one yourself?”
“Actually, both. I know what it’s like, so I want to make sure it matters before we tell them. If we turn it over, I don’t want it to be a letter from the grave that rips them apart, you know?”
I hadn’t thought of that, but he makes another valid argument, assuaging the doubts I’ve had since finding the letter. “True. I have to agree with you there. But if we follow this where it leads, we have to agree on something. We have to be careful which parts of the process we film, and when we shoot, and that we won’t share the footage if what we find is going to hurt the family. Deal?”
He extends a hand to shake. “Deal. I don’t want to hurt anyone either. Let’s see where this takes us. Speaking of, where do you think that will be, Miss Smarty Pants? ‘Five-mile stone’? That’s the key, right? The clue centers on some sort of milestone.”
I smile, a little cocky, a little coy. “Yes, and no. It’s a milestone, but it’s also a mile . . . stone.” I give the words the space between them they deserve.
“What does that mean?” He waggles his fingers. “Give me a hint.”
I’m about to tip him off when the waitress arrives with our food, at the precise moment Hunter’s belly growls loudly.
I can’t help but laugh as we thank the waitress. “You’re such an eater. You always loved your food.”
He pats his flat belly. “I’m a bear. I have to store it up for my next expedition.”
“Where is your next one?”
“One of my favorite places. I’ll be heading into the Utah desert and rappelling down some cliffs.” He says it as casually as someone else would say, I’m making a new PowerPoint presentation on best practices. Then he returns to the issue of the clue and the hint I gave him. “Mile . . . stone. That’s your hint?”
I dig into the salad, smiling delightedly, savoring the taste. “It’s like with the monkey’s shoe,” I prompt. “You put the shoe into the box. You used the monkey in a different way. So put the details in the letter together in a different way. What if milestone meant something else?” I say the words again with the significant pause in place. “Five-mile . . . stone.”
His brow furrows as he seems to move through the options. “Mile marker?”
My smile is immediate. “Stones were used as mile markers back in Old New York. The place we’re looking for must be near the five-mile marker.”
