![]() You need to know everything that happened. The condo, everything inside – it's all yours now. I've included the key for my condo, just in case you no longer have the copy I gave you. I should have chosen you when I had the chance. How there's no second or third act, just this messy and imperfect one we've been handed, and it's up to us how we choose to live it. I'm drinking Midleton, your favourite, and as I look out over the porch railing, at the setting sun, I can't stop thinking about how we're only given one life. ![]() The salty air blowing off the water feels unnaturally warm for this first week of December. I'm writing you this letter on the back porch of a rental home in Oguinquit, Maine. It's where I belong, they say, to atone for my sins. They want to bring me back to that place they call home. If they come for me – no, not if, it's a matter of when – when they come for me, I'm sure they'll bring a small army. They're known to strike in daylight but more often they wait for darkness, like vampires. They've been doing it for at least a hundred years – longer, if Jack Casey is to be believed, and I have no reason not to believe him. They're experts at hiding things: the living and the dead… the truth. ![]() Making people disappear, as you already know, is what they do best. Whatever you do, don't come looking for me. Dear Coop, By the time you read this, chances are I'll be either missing or dead. ![]()
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