“These are my possible theories so far.” Jesse takes a breath and picks up a piece of paper, one that has his own handwriting on it instead of Kinsley’s. “One, this is all a retaliation from Kinsley’s dad being the police officer on the case. It doesn’t explain why they waited until now though. Two, they found out Kinsley has been using a Private Investigator and they have sent George Watson in to scare her off.”

“And three?”

“Well, that’s the thing, I’ve only got two theories so far.”

An envelope with ‘To My Daughter’ written in cursive handwriting sits on the coffee table and it catches my eye. “What’s this?” I ask.

“That’s the suicide letter, Kinsley’s mum left her. I haven’t read it —” Jesse opens his mouth to continue talking but closes it again.

I open the envelope and take out the letter. “How old was she when her mum died?” I ask.

“Eighteen,” he answers without missing a beat.

I read over the same sentence three times, there is something cryptic in this message.

Sometimes when you know too much, you need to be silenced. It’s my turn to be silenced. Listen carefully now, be silent, Meadow. Be silent or be silenced.

I let my forearms rest on my knees as I stare at the paper, the longer I stare the more my stomach twists with unease.

“You need to read this, Jesse. At the very least, just this part here.” I hold the letter up to him pointing out the words which have me in a chokehold. There is something not right about the way in which it is written.

Jesse’s pupils dilate as he takes in the information. His reaction telling me this is new, something he wasn’t already privy to. As quickly as the emotions flicker across his face, they’re gone again and he gives a poor attempt at smiling; his facade faltering.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking B2?”

Inwardly I roll my eyes, but I play along. When the fuck did I fall onto his wavelength? “Why do you get to be B1?”

Jesse throws his head back in laughter. “I need a beer if we are going to keep doing this,” he says, standing. “Do you want one?”

Nodding in response, I pick the letter back up. Maybe the words will explain themselves to me if I stare at them long enough.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Jesse

Tanner is still reading over the letter from Kinsley’s mum when I return with beers in hand. I hold one out in offering and he takes it, flicking the cap off and downing at least half before lifting his eyes from the paper.

“She had to have known something,” he says with a pained look in his eyes. “Why didn’t Kins ever mention this to you?”