Stitch's Arc

Chapter 6 of 6

The pages sat in official hands now, but they named only half the killer. The water had eaten the rest of the name on the journal sheets. Stitch had delivered them to the magistrate, yet the clerk had frowned. Half a name proved nothing. To tie the pages to Finn Shakes, Stitch needed a sample of Finn's own writing. He had none. So he went looking for a man who kept other people's words. The post office stood by the water, its siding gray from salt. Inside, Morton Peebles sorted letters behind the counter. The old postmaster peered through thick glasses, reading each address before he set it down. He had spied on half the town through its mail. If anyone had touched Finn's handwriting, it was him. "Finn Shakes," Stitch said. "Did he ever send a letter through here?" Morton's eyes lit up. He loved a question with a secret under it. "Finn? That twitchy boy wrote letters for a girl once. Paid me to hold them when she moved upriver. Never came back for them." He leaned close. "Why do you want them?" "They settle a debt," Stitch said. Morton weighed that. Then he bent below the counter and drew out a bundle tied with faded ribbon. Sealed envelopes, stacked and soft at the corners. He set them down but kept one finger on the ribbon. "These stay mine until I hear a good reason," he said. "A woman is dead," Stitch said. "The man who wrote these killed her. The court holds pages with his name, but the name is half gone. His hand on these letters finishes it." Morton's finger lifted. He slid the bundle across the counter. Stitch loosened the ribbon. He opened the top envelope and unfolded the page. The writing crawled across it, cramped and jittery, the letters leaning hard to the left. He drew the journal sheet from his coat and laid it beside the letter. The torn name began with the same crooked F, the same shaking tail. A match. The same hand had written both. He had his proof. He tied the bundle again and turned for the door. A shape blocked the gray light outside. Finn stood on the steps, hat low, hands twitching at his sides. His eyes went to the bundle under Stitch's arm, then to the journal sheet still in his fist. "Those are mine," Finn said. His voice shook like his hands. Stitch backed toward the counter. Morton went still behind him. "The court already has your name," Stitch said. "Now it has your hand to prove it." Finn's face broke. He knew what the letters meant. He lunged for the bundle, caught the ribbon, and tore half the stack free. Then he bolted into the street, letters spilling behind him. Stitch gripped what was left. Enough pages to match the name. But Finn had torn away the rest, and now he knew exactly where the proof lived.