Page 25 of Big Risks

Walker looks at the letters, his expression unreadable. "I didn’t know if she even read them."

"They were read, a lot," I say gently.

He nods, a short, jerky movement. "I didn't know. I kept writing, thinking..." He trails off.

"Thinking she was ignoring you."

"The war was hard. I thought maybe it was too much for her. Or that she'd met someone else, and boy, did she. My best friend from high school and her found comfort in each other’s arms." His laugh is hollow.

I want to reach for him, but something holds me back. "Why didn't you tell me when you saw I had the letters?"

"What was I supposed to say? By the way, those love letters you're reading? I wrote them to my dead wife?" He shakes his head. "Once you realized what they were, I thought you'd put them away. I never expected you to read them all."

"But I did read them. And now I need to understand." I take a deep breath. "Did you ever find out why she didn't write back to the earlier ones? The ones she would have received?"

Something shifts in Walker's expression, a door closing. "Like I said, it doesn't matter anymore."

But it does. It matters because the pain in his eyes tells me there's more to this story—something he's not telling me. Something that might explain why he's kept everyone at arm's length for so long.

"I need some air," I say abruptly. "I can't be here right now."

Walker doesn't try to stop me as I head for the door. He just stands there, surrounded by the ghosts of words written long ago, looking more alone than I've ever seen him.

I drive without thinking, muscle memory guiding me down the highway and to the winding road to Oakside. Before I know it, I'm parked outside Brooke's cottage-style house. I text her from the car.

Me:You home? Need a friend.

Her reply is immediate. She doesn’t ask questions, just welcomes me.

Brooke:Door's open. Wine's cold.

Brooke takes one look at my face when I walk in and pulls me into a hug.

"What happened?" she asks, leading me to her couch.

I tell her everything. Finding the letters, realizing Walker wrote them, and then confronting him. The words tumble out in a confused jumble, but Brooke listens patiently, refilling my wine glass whenever it gets low. Her husband, Luke, is so thoughtful he brings us another bottle when we’ve gone through the first.

"So he never explained why she didn't write back to the early letters?" Brooke asks when I finish.

"No. He just shut down." I stare into my glass. "I don't understand why he kept this from me. We've been..." I trail off, not wanting to define what we've been.

"Have you considered that maybe it wasn't about hiding it from you specifically?" Brooke suggests gently. "Maybe it's something he's been hiding from himself."

"What do you mean?"

"Grief does strange things to people, Hailey. Sometimes the hardest part isn't losing someone—it's the unanswered questions they leave behind." She takes a sip of her wine. "Walker lost Riley, and it sounds like he never got closure on why she stopped writing. That kind of pain doesn't just go away."

"But why not tell me when he realized I found the letters?"

"Because then he'd have to face it all again. The love, the loss, the questions." Brooke shrugs. "And maybe he'd have to face the possibility of feeling that way about someone new. That's scary stuff."

I think about Walker's face when I confronted him—not angry, not defensive, just resigned. Like he'd been waiting for this moment, dreading it.

"I still feel betrayed," I admit.

"That's valid. But ask yourself this: was it malicious, or was it self-protective?" Brooke reaches over to squeeze my hand. "Fear can make people do odd things, especially fear of being hurt again."

My phone buzzes with a text.

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