Ridiculous: Mattory

23: Catch Me As I Fall

A/N: And now back to our regularly scheduled plot.

Matt

Something unspoken passes between Whitney and I—a silent pact that with everything that happened, we're not leaving Mal by herself right now. While I head back to my apartment for fresh clothes, among other things, the two girls go out to sort out Mallory's car and get groceries.

A thousand feelings vie for my attention. Love, adoration, devotion, anticipation... fear, foreboding, unrest, anger.

Someone had just tried to kill the love of my life, and I would not stand for this.

But there's nothing I can do about it.

Despite everything that had happened... we were back together. Forever and always float through my head, bringing a smile to my face. Not only were we together, but I'd (accidentally) asked her to marry me... and for some reason she said yes.

Not yet. We needed time to sort things out, to get a grip on our new/old relationship. Still it lingers on the edge of my consciousness, a promise to strive toward in the future.

It's no wonder I can't wipe the grin off my face.

And yet the house of cards that is my happiness all comes crashing down with one phone call.

I'm back at Mallory's apartment when the name Detective Reynolds lights up my screen. I snatch it up, thinking, Please, please be good news.

I should have known that would be too much to hope for.

"Mr. Meese," comes his voice. "It appears we have a problem."

I swallow hard and Mallory looks at me sharply. I can't meet her gaze, instead pulling myself up off the couch and heading into the kitchen. "What's going on?"

"You submitted a large amount of letters as evidence in this case, is that correct?"

"Yeah," I manage to get out. "They had everything to do with the explosion in Wyoming, down to the date and time. Could you not get anything out of them on the writer's identity?"

"I'm afraid," Reynolds says, "that the letters are all blank."

The jumble of thoughts in my head stills. "What? No, that can't be right. There has to be a mistake."

"We've triple and quadruple checked every one of them," says Reynolds. "Other than Ms. Everton's name and the address of your studio on the outside, there is no writing whatsoever on any of them."

Disbelief crashes down on me. "But that was our only lead."

"No," he says. "We have another."

I let out a breath. "What is it?"

"We found fingerprints on the letters." Reynolds pauses. "There were plenty on the outside envelopes, of course. But only one set on the papers themselves."

My brow furrows. "Just one?"

"They're all yours, Mr. Meese."

Time seems to slow.

"What?" I inhale deeply, trying to fight back my sudden lightheadedness. "Well of course my prints are on them, I read through them all yesterday."

"You read the blank papers, yes, I see," Reynolds says, and it's all I can do not to snap at the patronizing tone in his voice.

"They weren't blank!"