I take the letter and open it up. There’s a blocky paragraph in the very center of the page. The writingis familiar, but I don’t feel any kind of emotion when I look at Maxim’s handwriting.
I read the letter once.
Then I read it again.
On the third read, I realize my hands are trembling. I fold it up and hand it back to Isaak. He’s beenwatching me carefully this whole time, reading every twitch on my face and making his assumptions.
“Are you going to convince me that everything he said in that letter is a lie?” I ask.
“What I think is immaterial,” Isaak says with a nonchalant shrug. “What do you think?”
What do I think? It’s a damn good question. If anyone out there knows the answer, I’m all ears.Because right now, I’m so lost in the never-ending deception and lies
