Page 7 of The Best Wild Idea (Off-Limits #3)

By the time I reach the end of the second line, I have to set everything down on the counter and collect myself before going on.

I rub my eyes with balled fists, blinking fiercely, as if my lids are windshield wipers attempting to clear the view in the midst of a downpour.

My mind has to be playing the most wild tricks on me today.

This is impossible.

He’s dead.

Jules, he’s dead.

So how am I holding a letter that I’ve never seen before that was so clearly written by him?

And who the hell is Monica Braverman?

Again, I start at the top, my mind a jumbled collection of explanations for what I’m about to read, though none of it makes any sense.

My dearest Jules,

Don’t hate me for doing this.

What the hell? I can’t help it. I flip to the last page, and sure enough, it has his name there at the end. Written just like he would write it.

Grant

I flip back to the top and strain my eyes to keep reading through a fresh set of tears that quickly pool up along the rims.

This just can’t be.

“How the hell?” I mumble to no one in particular and look around for someone to jump out and yell surprise!

like I’m caught up in some sick joke, but my house is empty.

It’s always empty. I race to the little window by my front door and look out toward the street, needing to know if that guy is still standing out there, ready to slink back in to claim ownership over this poorly timed prank that someone thought might be funny.

To deliver a letter on the anniversary of his death.

One that looks eerily similar to something that might be written by him.

But no one is outside, and no one is hiding in my house either.

“He wrote this,” I say out loud as if I’m reciting a spell. Somehow making it real.

I don’t know whether to read it or hold it, savoring the knowledge that it exists in the world, looking forward to reading it for just a little while longer.

“Read it now,” I whisper to myself. It’s the last you’ll ever hear from him.

But why now?

Why today?

And why did I have to wait one whole year to read whatever this is?

With every conceivable, crazy notion running through my head, I start again from the top.

And this time, I don’t stop.