The Enraged (A Jonathan Quinn Novel) Read Online Free Page A

most likely—and dumping it in the trash would at least get her out of the chair.
    She forced herself up, and shuffled through her apartment to the door. When she opened it, she found no one there. Not a surprise. She’d assumed the person had moved on. Was glad, in fact. The surprise came when she looked at what had been left behind. It wasn’t an advertisement at all, but a notification from the post office.
    She pulled it off and took a closer look. It was for a certified letter that she had to sign for. She stuck her head into the corridor and looked both ways. The postal worker who’d left the note was nowhere in sight.
    Couldn’t be far, though. If she could catch him, it would save her a trip to the post office, something she hated doing even when she wasn’t mourning a friend’s death.
    She slipped on her gym shoes, grabbed her keys off the little table by the door, and went in search of her letter. She found the postman on the first floor, filling the mailboxes.
    “You left this on my door.” She held out the notification.
    The postman kept stuffing the boxes. “Let me finish this first, then I can help you.”
    She watched him move slowly from box to box—two letters here, four there, mailers from the neighborhood grocery store, catalogs—and had to stifle the urge to take his bag from him. When he finally finished, he shut the main door, locked it in place, and turned to her.
    “Let me see that, please.”
    She handed him the notice.
    He read it, and said, “Right. This is you? Misty Blake?”
    “Yes, it’s me.”
    He handed it back. “You’re going to have to sign it.”
    “Oh, um, I don’t have a pen.”
    He rolled his eyes and pulled a pen out of his pocket. “Don’t you walk off with that when you’re done.”
    “I won’t.”
    She signed the slip, and held it and the pen out to the postman.
    “Just hold on to it for a second.” He pulled an envelope out of his bag. “Gotta sign this, too.”
    There was a green card attached to the front. As she signed it, she glanced at the return address. It was typed—address only, no sender’s name.
    Raleigh, North Carolina. She’d never been there, and, as far as she could remember, knew no one who lived there.
    The postman took the card, snagged his pen back, and said, “All yours.”
    “Thank you.”
    As she neared her apartment, the weight of Peter’s death once more descended on her. She let herself in, and retuned to the kitchen table where she’d spent the morning. Her letter opener was all the way back on her desk in the bedroom, so she rustled up a kitchen knife and cut open the top of the envelope.
    She wasn’t sure what she expected to find, but a second envelope was not it. She pulled the enclosed envelope out and began turning it around so she could look at the front. But when she caught sight of the handwriting scrawled in the center, she dropped the letter on the table.
    The envelope spun as it fell, so that the front, while remaining visible, was upside down. Still, there was no mistaking what she’d seen. In blue ink was written:
     
    Misty
     
    She knew the handwriting as well as her own.
    Peter’s handwriting.
    She had no idea how long she stared at it. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours. At some point she sat down, and used the tips of her fingers to turn the envelope so that it was facing the right way.
    What could be inside? Why did it come now? How did it come now?
    She double-checked the exterior envelope. No way Peter could have sent it. It was postmarked after he died.
    A part of her didn’t want to open it, telling her by keeping it closed, in some small way, Peter was still alive. And while she knew she couldn’t listen to that voice, she was having a hard time convincing herself to pick up the knife and slice open the flap.
    Peter sent this. Peter wanted you to open it. If you don’t open it, you’re dishonoring him.
    That thought finally did it. Careful, so that she didn’t damage