No Forwarding Address ^Featured

Kettleford speaks about the past in the present tense. It took me a week to stop finding that strange, and a body to understand why.

I’m Juniper Osei, and I took the job running the Dead Letter Depository because I’d spent twelve years sorting other people’s undelivered lives and never quite arriving at my own. Then I unlocked the sorting room one foggy morning and found Clement Harding strangled behind the counter, next to the thirty-year-old letter I’d set aside to deliver to him.

That letter has started writing back. Overnight, in a cramped hand that isn’t mine, it answers the questions I leave in the empty sorting room. It won’t name a killer. Dead letters only speak in riddles, and this one points toward a secret someone guarded for thirty years and killed to keep buried.

Whoever tore my sorting room apart is still hunting for what that letter knows. They killed a man to keep it. Now they know I’m the one holding it.

A cosy mystery with gentle magic and no explicit content.