Right, Friend?

__________

Scott,

My friend. It is with a heavy heart that I write this letter. As you know, Francine’s death has put me in a fragile state, and I’ve made the difficult decision to move away.

Before I met Franny, you had been my closest confidant, and, admittedly, so much more. The past few years have driven us apart, and although we both denied the reason for this fissure I never gave up on rekindling our friendship…until now.

I’ve gone up north, beyond Toronto, in hopes of finding myself in these twilight years. Perhaps solitude will be a better friend to me now. I hope you can forgive me for what I’ve done. Lord knows I’ve forgiven you.

Your friend,

Peter

__________

Peter,

I am lost for words…Your sudden departure has left me sodden and squeamish. Despite our recent clashes, I had hoped to aid you in your mourning. Franny’s murder has not merely taken a toll on the neighborhood, but taken your heart as well.

How are you enjoying your new residence? I envision you sitting on the porch of a colonial-style cottage in the woods, just returned home from a fresh hunt, or simply a stakeout for your next meal. We both know you won’t be going to town anytime soon. You’ve always had a talent for self sufficiency.

Please don’t mistake my words for judgment. If I seem harsh it is because I am lonely. As selfish as it sounds, I feel abandoned here at home. There’s no charm left in Boston without you next door. I no longer sit on my stoop, nor do I keep my shades open, even during the day. I wish you had let me leave with you.

Sincerely,

Scott

_________

Friend,

I am surprised to receive your letter. I feared our last encounter, and my sudden exit, would ensure your hatred of me. I am confused, too, to learn that you have subscribed to the rumor that Francine was murdered when we both know the truth. I’ll chalk this up to Pauline’s gossip in your ear…

I must admit, your tone strikes me. Has your time alone sparked such solemnity that you no longer take your morning walks? Do you sit alone at your window watching our street turn sour? Do you spy on your neighbors instead of having them for dinner? That’s how I envision you now, friend, peeking out your window after dark.

I have already become accustomed to the cold, calming sunsets here in Canada that I have nearly forgotten the mania of urban life. However, I am not the huntsman you make me out to be. Not yet.

Best,

Peter

__________

Peter,

You are right. In these few months I’ve grown nervous. Our neighbors whisper of a growing unrest here in town. Pauline spearheads these whispers, gossiping with the book club, and theorizing about the true nature of Francine’s passing.

I fear your sudden exit has only fueled these devilish thoughts, and, given our past relationship, passersby have begun tying me in with these rumors. Everyone who walks by has something to say. Not with their mouths but with their eyes. Up and down, scanning me, scrutinizing me, hoping to find the answer. They believe Franny’s fate was of a sinister sort.

This town haunts me, but, like you, I find solace in my solitude. The evenings are the most serene, as I’ve begun enjoying my own smokes on the roof, away from prying eyes. Perhaps I can join you up north someday.

Cordially,

Scott

__________

Friend,

Pauline has always been an annoyance of mine. It aches me to find that her criticisms have yet to cease despite my absence. She has a habit of filling people’s heads with…malice ideas…particularly about me. And Francine had a habit of listening. I advise you to keep away from her and the club.

I never expected our neighbors to adore me, but there is no sense in entertaining any gossip that I am responsible for Franny’s death. If any such act has been committed, it surely wasn’t by my hand. However, it was determined that the accident is what killed her. It was purely a tragedy. Right, friend?

Tell me. In all our years together, I never witnessed you smoke one puff of anything. What makes you start now, especially on a rooftop when I certainly recall your fear of heights? Surely the past months haven't changed you so much that you’ve conquered your two biggest hurdles. You’ve never had the backbone before.

You are different than I remember, friend. Quite different. Warmer. More lively.

Peter

____________

Peter,

Do you recall our last day at Nox & Board? Twenty years of work torn apart in one morning.

I often catch myself thinking of that day. Mr. Ferse’s face still lingers in my mind; his eyes were so wide when he saw us together, so disgusted.

I turn it over in my head, wondering if we did the right thing. I wonder what Mr. Ferse would say if he had survived. I wonder what Francine would say. Would she believe it was for love?

Do you wonder? Do you lay awake at night?

If you believe me to be different, Peter, it’s because I am different and you know it. I’d say you are too, but it seems you’ve always been this way.

From,

A friend

____________

Liar,

As I sit here on my porch, back from a fresh hunt, I realize that I’ve become tired of this charade.

You are not who you say you are. My old friend Scott Hendrix is dead, and has been through the entirety of our correspondence.

Who are you? Are you a Detective? A child? Pauline, is that you?

I can only assume that you subscribe to the rumors regarding my wife’s demise. If a confession is what you seek, you’ll never get one from me. If you wish to find the man responsible for my wife’s death then look no further than the man you impersonate. 

This will be our last exchange, stranger. Leave this endeavor behind.

Peter

__________

Dear, Peter Lawson

I write this letter on December 13th, nearly half a year since the death of your wife, Francine Lawson, and that of Scott Hendrix, my brother.

Since the night they were murdered, I’ve spent significant time residing in Scott’s home hoping for answers. I found your farewell letter to him, along with many others over the years, to which I realized his and Francine’s deaths were not coincidences.

Based on your correspondence, it’s clear to see that my brother was in love with you. His own journals include a confession to the murder of Mr. Patrick Ferse of Nox & Board in an effort to keep your romance a secret. It was a success…until Francine.

Both you and Scott lived on the same street once you retired, and remained close until your union with Francine. Chatter from Francine’s book club suggested yours and Scott’s relationship soured after the marriage, often leading to outbursts from him toward Francine.

Scott murdered your wife, Peter, because he loved you too much. Then you murdered him.

Did you still love him when you hung him up? When you wrote your letter? 

I’ve sent the authorities up north, Peter. They’re going to get you. And I can’t wait to watch.

No friend of yours,

Marty Hendrix