Cara felt her hackles rise as she reached for the package of mail wrapped in its thick green rubber band. ‘Ridiculous,’ she thought to herself, ‘I don’t have hackles, but if I did they would be standing on end right now. Weird.’ Smiling at the office lady (there was always an office lady at the yacht club, they always had short bleached blond curly hair, they always had the personalities of seasponges, or so Cara thought) she walked out onto the gravel driveway, tearing open the large light brown envelope that had made itself apparent in the bundle of bills and flyers for cheaper pizza and better car insurance.
It felt as if someone had grabbed her heart in a vice-grip, shoving it up towards her throat. This made no sense. Who sent this?!
Three postcards were in the package, and nothing else.
No return address on the front of the envelope. Her name and address at the Yacht Club, where she moored the sailboat she lived on, were affixed with a printed white label. Was this some cruel joke? But nobody had known about the merman, her merman – the one she had loved.
Yet it appeared that someone must have known. These cards pointed to the undeniable fact. Someone was sending her a message. But who?
And, just as importantly . . . why?