Shallow Imitations

chapter four

There's a letter on my desk.

Not in the mail, delivered by a mailman, but sitting on the top of my desk as if someone had placed it there. I stare at it for too long, willing it to evaporate into thin air. My uneventful life has was interrupted by an uncommon occurrence. My fingers graze the white envelope. It wasn't mailed—there's no name or address—which can only mean that someone came into my apartment while I was out of the house pretending to be productive.

Someone had the key or broke in somehow—maybe came in through the window—purposely planting this bomb in my house. He or she had been in my home and possibly through my things, finally placing this letter they wrote here. This someone had to know I have a liking for writing letters. Or maybe they didn't know. Maybe they found it more convenient to break in then to ask around for my email or something.

My first thought is to call my sister, but I decide I can deal with this on my own. Eleonora would either overreact and worry unnecessarily or under react and tell me it's nothing. All I need to do is open it and read its content. Maybe it's a mistake, or maybe Eleonora is the one to leave it there. While she doesn't have a key to the apartment—I told her a million times I don't want here when I'm not messing with my things—the doorman would let her in as he knows she's my sister.

Maybe she planned a spontaneous vacation that's technology-free—I highly doubt she would do this—and decided to start by writing a letter. This sounds like the kind of thing she'd think of, but not commit to long enough for it to matter.

It's nothing to freak out about. Just a piece of paper.

Maybe I wrote this and forgot that I put it on my desk. Except that I know that it's impossible. I never take the letters out and I don't remember putting one on the desk. I always leave them at the bottom of the drawer where I can't read them again.

There's nothing on my desk when I leave and my pillows are propped up on the bed. I know these things by heart.

I take out the piece of paper staring at the cursive handwriting. It's quick and messy and I've never seen it before today. El's handwriting is neater than this and it's definitely not mine. The way the As curl at the top . . . I never do that.

My eyes go down to the signature. It only takes that one second as I take in his name for my heart to begin racing. The name signed at the bottom is familiar, yet not familiar at all.

The letter is signed by Atlas Hyde.

It's large, taking up most of the bottom page. The loop of the Y alone is huge. Even disregarding how impossible it is, the handwriting looks nothing like Atlas's.

How could this be? I read the letter realizing that it answers back to my own, something about how we can still go to Paris, telling me about the first time we met. I scan through the letter, not bothering to read it thoroughly. The facts are all wrong. I met Atlas in high school and not in the public library after hours (we were both trapped there, apparently). It continues to paint a picture of things that never happened and includes people I don't know. The letters I write I never signed, so whoever wrote this abstained from using a name.

For one thing, his last name is Gallagher, but I'm not even worried about that. The thing that's concerning me is who would actually do this. The person doesn't seem to realize that Atlas is dead, but why send a letter? Why follow me home? I'm sure he or she would realize that none of the details are real. If he was going for realism, he wouldn't have included so many specific details.

I retrace my steps. The only person I talked to yesterday was Henry and then there's the guy I spotted at the coffee shop who commented on my writing gear. Could it be him? How would he get my letter?