The Letter

The Mysterious Viggo Astor

Raven shook her head, refusing to believe what she had just heard. "No. No. You're shitting me, right? Y-You can't be... it's impossible!"

"I'm not joking," he said.

She bounded from the sofa-bed, the throw blanket falling to the floor. "B-But the grave," she stammered. "The name engraved on the headstone!"

"It was a fluke," he said. "Believe me. I was just as surprised as you when I saw it."

"You deceived me!" she said incensed.

He lowered his head in shame. He had deceived her. Nothing he could say would change that.

She felt inclined to march over to him and slap him square across the face. "How could you!" she said, her emotions veering from exhilaration that she'd found him to disgust that he tricked her.

He dragged his hand through his hair. "I told you. It's complicated!"

Her hands jittery, she struggled to unzip her purse. "Come on," she grumbled, frustrated. Finally, the slider moved to the opposite end.

Her purse open, she retrieved the letter and the goodbye note that he'd left yesterday morning. Something had been nagging her about it—something about the penmanship.

"What are you doing?" he said puzzled.

"Stay back!" She barked.

Nodding, he didn't move a muscle.

Laying the two pieces of paper side by side, she compared the handwriting. Though written in cursive and calligraphy, she saw a similarity. The loops in the a's matched and the curves in the r's.

The truth staring her in the face; she accepted the unimaginable.

"You're Viggo," she said as a statement.

"Yes," he replied, his voice just above a whisper.

"B-But how?"

She remembered the waiter's unnatural speed and creepy eyes. "You're like him?" She said. "No. Don't answer that," she said immediately afterward. "Because if you are what does that make me!"

He swallowed.

"I was dying! I was bleeding to death! I shouldn't be alive right now!

His eyes misted.

"What did you do to me!" she shouted.

"I saved you," he said.

Her mind reeling, she slumped down onto the sofa-bed and buried her face in her hands. She felt as though she starred in a bad B-Movie. She would laugh at the absurdity if none of this were true.

"I know this is a lot for you to absorb," he said. "I wish you didn't have to find out this way."

She looked up, her eyes wet with tears. "If I hadn't, you would have let me leave here not knowing the truth," she said. "You would have been okay continuing to deceive me."

He flinched.

She sighed. "Okay. Tell me everything. You owe that at least."

He sat beside her but kept a distance not to intrude on her personal space.

She pondered him. Even though angry with him, his beauty was still captivating. She gazed into his chestnut eyes, framed with long lashes. His hair black as onyx with silky curls. His smooth alabaster skin and the pronounced freckles on his nose and cheeks. She looked away not to lose herself staring at him.

"What year were you born?"

"1867," he said.

She felt faint. She pushed out a breath. The room spun around her. "Are you okay?" He said. His concern seemed genuine.