I was also still crafting paper stars, even though no one was collecting them anymore. I’d used up the origami paper I had, and then I’d switched to marketing fliers and ad magazines, the glossy paper of varying thickness making each star a little different. I looked through the mail, tearing apart any pieces that appealed to me and stacking them to put in the shoe box where I kept my star paper. Some of the envelopes were trash credit card or insurance applications, one was a renewal notice for Smithsonian Magazine, but the last one was handwritten, personal. Not the fancy square shape of an invitation or a thank-you card, just a basic envelope with a stamp. I opened it and pulled out a piece of lined notebook paper, the edges ragged from where it had been torn from a spiral binding. In blotchy ballpoint, someone had written: It’s people like you who should have been killed. I hope you rot in hell.

My throat constricted, and I glanced at the windows and the front door. Strangers were attacking, just like before. They’d read the story in some paper or seen it on the news, and we’d been found guilty. They were coming after us, and no part of the new, happy life I’d built was safe. My breath was quick and shallow, making me light-headed. I forced myself to inhale deeply. Nobody was in the house. The curtains we’d chosen hung undisturbed, sheltering us from any passersby. The golden oak of the kitchen table was smooth under my hands. This time it wasn’t just me; it was Michael and Grace. I had to be strong for them.

I snapped a picture of the note and the envelope—no return address but postmarked Texarkana—and texted it to Alondra. I could just picture the creep who’d sent it. Some old busybody without the savvy to use the internet or the sense to realize that not everything the media tells you is the truth. Just like the books I’d left at Elizabeth’s, I wouldn’t lie about this, but I wasn’t going to tell Michael about it either. My phone buzzed with an incoming text. Alondra had written: High publicity case=crazies. Anything personal or specific, send to police. Otherwise hold onto them, but don’t let them fuck w/your head.

Too late for me and Michael, I thought. Our heads were totally fucked.

I added the poison pen letter to the folder with Aimee’s postcards and slid the whole thing between two art books. Michael didn’t need to know about this either. So much for being totally honest. I’d always been proud of being a lousy liar. Maybe I’d been kidding myself about who I really was too.