Mail.

In a bigger town or city, it would be possible, even likely, to go all day without seeing someone you know. You could just go about your business without anyone really even knowing that you were there. If you wanted to see someone you knew, you'd seek them out.

In small towns, things work exactly the opposite. This works for some people. I guess they like the feeling of community and being interconnected. The ugly side of this small town dynamic is what happens when it is flipped against someone. Those strings of gossip that connect one part of the social web to another tell the hateful spiders where their prey is and how to hurt it.

Someone, I don't know who, must have seen me coming or going from Nicole's house. One evening when she was getting home from work, she handed me a letter.

"This was in the mail." She looked at me expectantly.

The envelope was blank except for my name written in black ink. I went outside to open it - it wouldn't be the first time that they'd tried to kill me - but it was just a folded piece of yellow, lined notebook paper.

Adam,
I know that you are here. I know that you are trying to make sense of this. As long as you do not try to find me, I can help you. If you want answers, look in your mother's mailbox.

It took me a few days to decide whether I thought it was safe to go. Without help, I was getting nowhere, so in the end I mustered up the courage and went to my mother's. I pulled my car up next to the mailbox and carefully opened the box. There was nothing there. For a second, I was convinced that I'd fallen into a trap. I closed the mailbox and sped off.

The more I thought about it, the more I wondered if the person who wrote the letter had meant my mother's post office box instead. For security, she'd never actually used the mailbox in front of the house. All her mail had been processed through her P.O. box. There was almost no way to check the box without being seen by at least a few people. Having already possibly fallen into someone's trap, I decided to go for it anyway.

It was a Friday, at about 6:45 pm, fifteen minutes before they closed their doors for the weekend. I probably looked like a shoplifter, the way I was dressed, but at least I could hope that someone might overlook me from a distance. The little brass mailbox doors are arranged along the walls in the entryway to the post office. There was almost no one around when I went, but I could still feel my palms sweating. I went into the alcove where her mailbox was and dialed in the combination I'd found in an ancient saved e-mail.

Inside, there were a couple months worth of ads and junk mail, a few official-looking letters and a large manila envelope. The envelope was completely blank - not even an address. I left everything else and took it, closing the small door and jumbling the code. I turned out of the alcove, just a few feet from the exit, and ran into the broad, muscled chest of a man wearing a black suit. It was Pastor Charles.

"Hello, my son."

I stumbled from the shock, but kept heading for the exit. Looking back, I saw that he had turned to face me and his one good eye locked onto mine for a full second. I pushed through the doors and walked quickly to the car, my legs feeling numb from the amount of adrenaline pumping through my body.

I decided that with the good chance that someone was watching me, I couldn't just drive right back to Nicole's. Someone knew that I was staying there, but maybe not everyone knew. I drove to a secluded back road and parked. The envelope sat on the passenger seat. I picked it up. It felt dense and heavy, like it might have contained a book. I tore off the top and confirmed my suspicion, pulling out a black composition notebook.

Flipping through the notebook, I saw bible verses written in quotes, with notes, highlights and annotations written all around them. Whoever had made the notebook had been very dedicated, and had filled the entire book. Needless to say, I was disappointed. These weren't answers. I'd risked everything, and came up with someone's Bible study notes. I looked back in the envelope, but there was nothing. No name inside the notebook. No clues.

And Pastor Charles had seen me. I was done for, basically. The last time I'd seen him was at my uncle's house right after his death. He and some other members of his church had been there immediately, starting a prayer circle and kicking me out of the town. I was sure my uncle hadn't committed suicide, and if I was going to suspect anyone of his murder, it was the pastor and his loyal congregation.

And now, this fucking nonsense. Someone was playing games with me.

The Volkswagen didn't start on the first try. Sometime in that pause before trying to crank the engine over again, it hit me. The church. Pastor Charles. The townspeople.

I had to go to the church. The church was where all the answers were. It shocked me that I hadn't been thinking of it before. Trying to stay hidden and playing private eye in the shadows was going to get me nowhere. The thing that strung the mystery together was that damn church. It was even in that first photo of Marissa.

My heart and the Rabbit's engine started pumping, carrying me through the darkness and the heavy rain toward the church.