Mabena’s breath caught. A note? Would it have some explanation? Or was it just Beth pouring out her frustrations in something she’d decided not to give him? Or, perhaps more likely, one of the letters she was supposed to send him twice a week. Unfinished, maybe.

Oliver sank onto the sofa, flipping open the paper. As his eyes darted back and forth across the page, Mabena lowered the slip of parchment she’d been holding to her side. “What is it?”

His brows were as low as a bank of storm clouds. “I’m not entirely certain. What do you think?”

He handed it over far too casually, in her opinion, something unlikely if they were the mere acquaintances she was trying to pretend they were. But Libby didn’t seem to think anything of it, just came to Mabena’s side to look at it with her. Always more curious than polite, that was Libby. And much as Mabena had the sudden urge to shield the letter from her, she squelched it. It would give away too much about how invested she was in what Libby would think only a mystery.

Oliver,

I know you’ll be unhappy with me, and I’m sorry for that. I only meant to have a bit of fun, find a new story to tell, perhaps earn a bit. But it’s certainly not fun now. I can’t undo the last month, but I can try to put a stop to the trouble brewing, anyway. Only, I can’t do that where I’ve been. But I know you’re not going to like the plan I came up with, and so . . . well, so I’m not telling you.

I know it’s cruel of me to leave you guessing, and I’m sorry for that too. I assume Mrs. Pepper will return this and everything else to you, and no doubt you’ll worry. Try not to. I can’t say more than that—I know well you’ll interfere. You won’t be able to help yourself. Just trust me, big brother. Please? And if you would pay Mrs. Pepper for the cottage when she comes to you, that would be lovely. I’ll need it again soon.

If all goes well, I’ll be back home and annoying you within a few weeks. I’ve tried to put a few safeguards in place in case anything goes awry. There are no guarantees, of course, when one is dealing with this sort of thing, but . . . but I can’t in good conscience let it go unanswered. Even if it is unlikely I’ll prevail against them, I have to try. I owe it to him.

If you get this before Johnnie’s funeral, tell his mum I’m sorry I wasn’t there. He was a sweet lad.

Beth

Mabena’s frown was no doubt every bit as thunderous as Oliver’s. “Johnnie?”