Would soda straws or candy bar wrappers work best for the subversive part of my project—or should I use a combination of both?
I hoped I’d come to some conclusions at the recycling center that afternoon. I always did my best thinking at the dump.
Sam’s smile was warm and encouraging. “I’m so happy you’re putting yourself out there like this, Cassie.”
“Me, too.” It was the truth. “There’s no way to know if the art exhibition will accept my piece, but it feels good to be working towards something big again.”
Sam made his way into the living room as he ate his oatmeal. “By the way,” he said, faking nonchalance, “someone slid a letter addressed to you under our door last night.”
I looked up at him, surprised. “Really?”
“It’s so fancy that at first I thought it might have been a summons to visit the King of England.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “But then I remembered those aren’t usually slid under the door in the middle of the night.”
Sam held up an envelope I hadn’t seen him bring into the living room and tossed it onto the coffee table between us.
My breath caught.
It was Frederick’s stationery—a square, off-white envelope identical to those he used for all his notes to me. Even if he’d used regular notebook paper, though, I would have immediately known this was from him. He’d written Miss Cassie Greenberg on the front in the same fancy handwriting, and with the same blue ink, he used for all our correspondence.
His familiar blood-red wax seal held the envelope closed.
FJF
Before meeting Frederick I hadn’t known wax seals still existed. Everything about that man was an anachronism, I realized. Out of place. From a different time altogether.
Just how many clues about who and what he truly was had I missed?
Sam pretended to turn his attention back to his oatmeal, but I could feel his eyes on me as I slid my finger beneath the seal and broke it. Sam was curious about this letter—but I still hadn’t found the courage to tell him the truth about either Frederick or why I was staying in his apartment. I just didn’t have the energy to get into any of it with him.
Bracing myself, I slid out the single folded sheet of stiff, off-white paper from the envelope and began to read.
Dear Cassie,
I hope this letter finds you well.
I write to let you know that your belongings are right where you left them. When you fled, you said I could dispose of anything you left behind. That said, I suspect that what remains in my home constitutes the bulk of your material possessions. I further suspect that you said what you did only out of fear and in the heat of the moment—and that you do, in fact, wish to have your things returned to you.
If I do not get a response to this letter within a week, I will assume you truly do not wish to have your things back and I will arrange with Gerald to have them donated to charity. （Gerald handles recycling for our building. I spoke with him for the first time yesterday. Do you know he has worked for the city’s sanitation department for twenty-two years, and has two grown children? I did not. But you probably already do, as you took out the recycling several times in the two weeks we lived together and you are so warm and friendly with everyone.） Please let me know at your earliest convenience if you would like your things returned to you. I can even arrange it so that you can collect them without having to interact with me, if that’s what you want.
Despite how we left things, I want you to know it was truly a pleasure to have made your acquaintance and to have been your roommate for the short time we were together. I am so sorry to have upset and frightened you through my lack of full disclosure and my actions.
Yours,
Frederick
I swallowed the lump in my throat, then read Frederick’s letter a second time.
Yours, Frederick.
He was just so . . . earnest.
And thoughtful. Beyond the compliment he paid me—you are so warm and friendly with everyone—he’d understood me well enough to know that after my panic had subsided, I’d likely want my stuff back.
Without him hanging around.
The vulnerability Frederick must be feeling all but jumped from the page. Yet I could tell he had taken great pains to try and hide it. I thought back to the evening he’d tried so hard to understand my art. In hindsight, of course my art made no sense to him. The man was hundreds of years old! But he’d tried anyway, listening attentively as I explained it to him—all because it was important to me.
Maybe Frederick was telling the truth when he said he never wanted to hurt me. It was seeming increasingly likely. He might not technically be alive—and yes, he was a vampire—but he was also . . .