Chapter 19 – The Letter
It started with a letter.
Not an email. Not a message. A real, hand-written letter. Folded twice and tucked inside a plain white envelope with no return address.
It arrived on a Wednesday.
Maya found it wedged in their mailbox, sandwiched between a community flyer and Liam's automotive catalog. Her name was written in thick black ink—just "Maya," nothing more. No stamp. No postmark.
Someone had delivered it by hand.
She opened it slowly, standing in the kitchen, toast forgotten in the toaster.
The first line made her heart drop.
You left something behind in Florence.
Her breath caught.
She kept reading.
I've been watching. And I know what you did that night in the alley behind Via San Lorenzo.
There was no signature. Just a symbol at the bottom. A circle with a diagonal slash through it.
Nothing about that night had ever been public. Nothing had ever been said—not to Liam, not to Zoey. Not even to herself.
Flashback: Florence, 1 year ago.
It had rained for hours. Maya had taken a wrong turn after her exhibit, distracted and emotional, not ready to go home. The narrow street had been dim, lit only by old lamps and flickering windows.
She remembered hearing footsteps behind her—fast, heavy.
She remembered the scream.
She remembered running toward it, breathless, stumbling over cobblestone.
And then… she remembered finding the girl.
A local. Younger. Hurt.
Bleeding.
Maya had called for help. Stayed with her until police arrived. But when questions came—about what she saw, who she might've noticed—Maya had hesitated.
And then lied.
To protect herself. To avoid dragging her name into the news. It had been her last night in Florence, and she couldn't afford to stay.
She told herself someone else would help the girl. That it wasn't her responsibility.
But now…
Now someone knew.
Back in the present, she reread the letter five times, trying to make sense of the words.
"Are you okay?" Liam called from the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder. "You've been standing there forever."
Maya crumpled the letter in her fist, stuffing it into the pocket of her cardigan before he could see.
"Yeah," she said quickly. "Just zoning out. You want eggs?"
He nodded, but gave her a look—like he knew something was off.
Maya's heart pounded.
Who left the letter? How did they know where she lived? And what did they want?
The next day, another letter appeared.
Same envelope. Same handwriting. This one was shorter.
You can't pretend forever. Truth has a way of showing up.
Again, the same symbol. A circle with a slash.
This time, she didn't throw it away.
That night, she couldn't sleep.
Liam noticed.
"Want to talk about it?"
She hesitated.
Say something. Tell him.
"I think someone's messing with me," she finally whispered.
He sat up. "What do you mean?"
"I got… letters. Weird ones. No return address."
"Let me see them."
Maya froze.
But something inside her—fear, maybe—made her reach into her bag and hand them over.
Liam read both letters in silence, his expression unreadable.
When he looked up, his voice was low. "What happened in Florence, Maya?"
She couldn't lie. Not now.
So she told him.
About the girl. The alley. The choice to stay quiet.
When she finished, Liam didn't speak for a long time.
Finally, he said, "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"I was scared," she whispered. "I thought if I ignored it, it would go away."
He nodded slowly. "Well, it didn't."
The next morning, someone knocked at the gallery door before it opened.
Maya opened it, confused, only to find an envelope taped to the glass.
Inside it: a photo.
Of her.
Taken from behind.
Standing outside the café in Florence.
The timestamp at the bottom read: October 28, 10:47 p.m.
The same night. The same alley.
On the back of the photo was a message in the same bold black ink:
Come back. Or the truth comes out.