Christian unloaded Rachelle and Travis's deep fryer from the back of my SUV and carried it up to the side porch. We entered through the kitchen door, and walked in on a conversation about The Ghost. Our parents were sitting around the great room, but we could easily hear their voices from the open kitchen. I nodded toward the pot of coffee that had been brewed and asked Christian if he wanted a cup. We carried our mugs in and joined them.

"You said that before Monster died he was catching a lot of shit from his men because they didn't always agree with his rules," my father said to Uncle Anthony. "Maybe there is no Ghost. Isn't it possible that Blue wants everyone to think someone else is calling the shots so when the men don't agree with his decisions he can put the blame on this supposed Ghost?"

"It's plausible," Anthony agreed. "There is one other thing." All eyes cut to him and he said, "Blue, or The Ghost, doesn't seem to protect the gang. He lets them get caught." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "We did what we could to protect our guys." He nodded at my father. "I don't see Blue doing that, and I know it's not because he doesn't know how or doesn’t want to."

There was no time for further speculation when we were interrupted by my grandfather. "I can't tell you how glad I am to see my best girl's car out front," he announced from the kitchen. We'd been so engrossed in our conversation, nobody heard him come in through the same door Christian and I had used.

My mother jumped up and immediately started making introductions. I could see she was getting nervous about how she would explain our company and Christian's battered face, when my grandfather grabbed my husband's hand and shook it. "Looks like you've been in an accident. Anything else banged up?"

"No, sir," Christian said with a half grin.

Turning to me, my grandfather wrapped his arms around me and asked, "Were you in the same accident?" Pulling back he assessed my face and concluded, "Your bruises don't look as fresh."

I laughed and said, "I had a close encounter with a kayak that was yanked out of the back of a truck."

He kissed my forehead, and made his way around the room, shaking hands with Uncle Anthony and hugging Aunt Christy. I loved how my grandfather never made anyone feel as if they needed to explain or justify themselves. He had the ability to mind his own business and accept unconditionally. He didn't ask how my parents knew the Bears. He didn't ask where they lived and what they were doing in Pine Creek. It was his way. I remembered asking him once why he wasn't more curious about my father's old lifestyle. His answer was a simple question. "Why pry when you can pray?" He'd winked at me. "Nothing good ever comes out of prying, but a whole bushel of good can come out of praying." I couldn't think of anyone I admired more than Micah Hunter.

He captivated our company with lighthearted teasing about watching Grizz raise four-year-old twins. My father wasn't offended in the least and even joined in with some stories of his own about Ruthie and Dillon.

"Believe me, Anthony and I understand—" Aunt Christy started to say when Christian quietly interrupted her.

"Mom, can Mimi and I have a minute with you?"

"Christian, I was talking," she softly said, giving him a stern look.

"Was that Rachelle's turkey fryer I saw on the porch?" my grandfather asked my mother.

The conversation immediately went from middle-aged musings on raising small children to my mother asking my father, grandfather, and Uncle Anthony to get the fryer set up outside. It was our cue to ask Aunt Christy to follow us upstairs for a private chat.

Once upstairs in my bedroom, Christian shut the door behind us.

"What's this all about?" She was smiling. “Grizz said Anthony and Micah can set up the fryer so he can give me a private tour of the hen house. I might like to set something up like that at home. We definitely have the space.”

“I’m sure my dad will give you a tour after we talk to you,” I answered.

She nodded and gave me an eager smile. I was certain she was expecting us to ask her some motherly advice about our current situation. I watched the corners of her mouth start to turn downward when Christian asked, "What did you do with the letters Mimi sent me?"

She slowly nodded, and softly said, "I shouldn't be surprised that this has come up."

"You don't deny that you got the letters, read them, and obviously didn't show them to me?"

She looked at me, and then Christian. "I thought it was for your own good. And your father agreed with me." Looking back at me she said with a sympathetic smile, "And I was only doing what your mother asked of me. Cutting off contact with your family. I don't need to explain to either of you what was at stake."

"Ignoring them was one thing, Mom. But writing back to her? I still can't believe you did it, but it couldn’t have been anyone else."

I could see genuine shock on her face.

"W-write back?” she stammered. "I never wrote back."

Christian gave me a curt nod and I walked toward my bookshelf. I felt their eyes on my back as I sifted through the deep shelves. My old Bible had been buried behind so many other books I wasn't sure if maybe my memory was wrong and I'd actually disposed of it. I spotted the worn binder and pulled it from the shelf. Turning back to them, I looked down as I flipped through the long-abandoned pages and retrieved the piece of notebook paper that had been pressed between them for the past five years.

I gulped as I handed the letter to Christian, not allowing my eyes to meet his. Knowing that he hadn't written the letter hadn't been enough to stave off the reminder of the humiliation and sting the cruel words had inflicted.

I watched his brows furrow in concentration. When he looked up his eyes were blazing with a fury so intense, I half expected fire to shoot out of them.

"I didn't write this, but it's my handwriting!" he spat as he thrust the letter at his mother.

Her eyes widened as she took the note from his hands. I noticed the paper slightly shaking as Aunt Christy read it. She let out a gasp and brought her hand to her chest. "You think I wrote this?" There was a swift but uncomfortable silence. "To Mimi? You think I'm capable of this, Christian?"

"I didn't write it and there is nobody else who could've." He stood over his mother with his arms crossed, glaring down at her.

She looked at me. "I’ll admit that I threw all your letters away, Mimi. I'm not denying that." She turned to Christian. "But those three letters went in the shredder. There is no way anybody else, other than your father, could've seen them, let alone replied to them." She shook her head. "I'm at a loss. I don't have an explanation."

"Wait," I interjected. "I sent four letters."

"Four?" Aunt Christy asked, her blues eyes objecting. "No. That can't be right." She shook her head again slightly. "I distinctly remember reading three letters." She looked up at Christian. "You can ask your father. He'll tell you. There were only three."

"Well, if you didn't send Mimi a reply it could only mean that someone else intercepted my mail. And the only people I can think of who would've had access to it is Dad or Slade."

Aunt Christy and I both gasped at the same time.

"Absolutely not, Christian!" she whisper-shouted. "Your father or brother would never write something this horrid to Mimi. Never!"

"I don't want to disagree with you, Aunt Christy," I politely stated. "I want to believe that you didn't write it, but if it wasn't you or them..." I paused trying to articulate my thoughts. "Basically you're looking for someone who not only had access to your mail, but let’s face it was someone who knew Christian well enough to emulate his handwriting. I'm not trying to be disrespectful, but it all points to one of you."

I leaned into Christian, as the heartbreak of knowing my new family was capable of something so mean-spirited and hateful weighed heavily on my heart. He pulled me in closer.

"Unless..." Aunt Christy started to say.

"She would've been able to copy my handwriting," Christian growled.

"I can't believe she didn't immediately come to mind," Aunt Christy countered.

"Who?" I practically screamed.

"The woman I'm going to kill," Christian replied in a voice so low and menacing it took my breath away.