The door to my mailbox is stuck. It needs oil. I should tell Gary, the gardener. Or is it Gerry? I ought to remember. I see him practically every day.
I tug at the door until it’s half open. I squeeze my hand in. No one sends letters anymore. It’s all bills and junk mail. Wait. What’s this? I extract a folded piece of paper.
Two words are written with red Sharpie in thick block-print letters: i know.
The words swim in and out of focus. This must be a joke. Some cruel prank. I feel lightheaded.
Maybe someone who heard about Stan on the news is trying to have some sick fun. Tragedies attract weirdos.
I look up. The road’s empty. I feel exposed. Whoever put this here could be watching. I turn and flee through the iron gates and up my drive.
Rounding the bend, the wind sweeps in, cold from the sea. It tears at my clothes. The note flaps. I start to run. Overhead, the oaks creak, full of warning. And the house, tall and dark, judging me, like it knows about Stan. I run as fast as I can.
On reaching the steps, I stop, winded. My breaths come in jerky gasps. The pine trees rustle.
I sink onto the bottom step, gasping. Behind me, the sea rushes in and out. It hisses over the stones, gleeful.
I know, I know, I know.
I shut my eyes and cover my head with my hands. Stan’s death was an earthquake. It triggered this tsunami. There’s no way to stop it and nowhere to run.