“You lied to me,” he said for the third time. “You used me.”

“I didn’t. . . .”

“Yes, you did!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the room. Remembering Catherine, he held the letters out in front of him, as if Theresa had never seen them before. “These were mine—my feelings, my thoughts, my way of dealing with the loss of my wife. Mine—not yours.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He stared hard at her without saying anything. His jaw muscles tensed.

“This whole thing is a sham, isn’t it,” he said finally, not waiting for her to answer. “You took my feelings for Catherine and tried to manipulate them into something you wanted. You thought that because I loved Catherine, I would love you, too, didn’t you?”

Despite herself, she paled. She felt suddenly incapable of speech.

“You planned all this from the beginning, didn’t you?” He paused again, running his free hand through his hair. When he spoke, his voice began to crack. “The whole thing was set up—”

He seemed dazed for a moment, and she reached out to him.

“Garrett—yes, I admit I wanted to meet you. The letters were so beautiful—I wanted to see what kind of person writes like that. But I didn’t know where it would lead, I didn’t plan on anything after that.” She took his hand. “I love you, Garrett. You’ve got to believe me.”

When she finished speaking, he pulled his hand free and moved away.

“What kind of person are you?”

The comment stung, and she responded defensively, “It’s not what you think. . . .”

Garrett pressed on, oblivious of her response. “You got caught up in some weird fantasy. . . .”

That was too much. “Stop it, Garrett!” she cried angrily, hurt by his words. “You didn’t listen to anything I said!” As she shouted, she felt tears welling up in her eyes.

“Why should I listen? You’ve been lying to me ever since I’ve known you.”

“I didn’t lie! I just never told you about the letters!”

“Because you knew it was wrong!”

“No—because I knew you wouldn’t understand,” she said, trying to regain her composure.

“I understand all right. I understand what kind of person you are!”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t be like this.”

“Be like what? Mad? Hurt? I just found out this whole thing was a charade, and now you want me to stop?”

“Shut up!” she shouted back, her anger suddenly rising to the surface.

He seemed stunned by her words, and he stared at her without speaking. Finally, with breaking voice, he held out the letters again.

“You think you understand what Catherine and I had together, but you don’t. No matter how many letters you read—no matter how well you know me—you’ll never understand. What she and I had was real. It was real, and she was real. . . . ”

He paused, collecting his thoughts, regarding her as if she were a stranger. Then, stiffening, he said something that hurt her worse than anything he’d said so far.

“We’ve never even come close to what Catherine and I had.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Instead he walked past her, toward his suitcase. After throwing everything inside, he zipped it quickly. For a moment she thought to stop him, but his comment had left her reeling.

He stood, lifting his bag. “These,” he said, holding the letters, “are mine, and I’m taking them with me.”

Suddenly realizing what he intended to do, she asked, “Why are you leaving?”

He stared at her. “I don’t even know who you are.”

Without another word, he turned around and strode through the living room and out the door.