Chương 7
She opened it.
Inside were envelopes bundled with rubber bands, legal filings, photographs, photocopies, handwritten notes, and a child’s pink plastic hair clip.
Elena picked it up.
The clip was shaped like a butterfly.
“I wore these.”
“Every day for about six months.”
“You remember that.”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t get points for remembering.”
“I know.”
She glared.
He looked away.
“Sorry.”
She pulled out the first bundle of letters.
The envelopes were addressed to Melissa’s house.
Some had never been opened.
Others had been slit along the top before being returned.
One had Victor Cross’s old law firm stamp on the back.
Elena’s fingers went cold.
“What is this?”
Thomas leaned closer.
“That one came back in another envelope.”
She removed the letter.
The paper inside was creased.
His handwriting was blocky and uneven.
Elena,
I don’t know if Aunt Melissa will let you read this. I am supposed to say I am sorry and I am, but I know adults say sorry when what they really mean is please stop being mad. You can be mad. I am mad at me too.
She stopped.
Thomas stared out the window.
“You wrote this from prison.”
“Yes.”
She continued.
I am going to be away for a while. You did not do anything wrong. Your mom did not do anything wrong. I made choices after she died that made things worse. I love you. You don’t have to answer.
At the bottom was a drawing of something resembling a horse.
Elena held it up.
“What is that?”
Thomas squinted.
“Dog.”
“It’s terrible.”
“Yeah.”
“You drew me a terrible dog.”
“You liked dogs.”
“I liked horses.”
“That explains some things.”
A laugh escaped her.
It horrified her.
Thomas looked at her.
His own smile appeared and disappeared.
Neither mentioned it.
They spent nearly two hours going through the box.
Not everything helped Thomas.
One court document confirmed the guilty plea.
Another showed he had missed two required counseling appointments after release.
A probation report described alcohol misuse and unstable housing.
Elena read all of it.
Thomas never asked her to skip a page.
Near the bottom they found copies of three certified letters sent years later, after Thomas was sober.
All were addressed to Elena at colleges she had attended.
All had been returned.
“Why didn’t you email?”
“I did once.”
“When?”
“Your junior year.”
“What address?”
He told her.
She frowned.
“That wasn’t mine.”
“I know that now.”
“How did you get it?”
“A website with alumni listings.”
Elena looked at him.
“So some random address bounced, and you gave up?”
“No. I called the school.”
“And?”
“They wouldn’t give me your information.”
“Of course they wouldn’t.”
“I know.”
She caught herself before snapping.
Thomas rubbed his thumb along the rim of the cup.
“I should’ve done more.”
“Yes.”
“I was scared.”
“Yes.”
“I kept waiting until I could show up as somebody who deserved to show up.”
Elena said nothing.
“That took too long.”
“Twenty-four years.”
“Yes.”
“No version of you could deserve to show up after twenty-four years.”
Thomas looked at her.
She expected him to flinch.
He did not.
“That’s fair.”
She hated the phrase less this time.
Her phone buzzed.
Damien.
She let it ring.
Thomas looked toward the window.
“You should talk to him.”
“Do not give me marriage advice.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You just did.”
“I said talk to him. You can throw him off a bridge after.”
She stared.
Thomas lifted both hands.
“Bad joke.”
“Very.”
A second call came.
Then a message.
I found something.
Elena read it twice.
“What?”
Thomas asked.
She closed the toolbox.
“My husband.”
Damien met her at the apartment they had shared for three years.
His overnight bag sat beside the door.
That detail did something to her.
He had packed.
Not dramatically. No garment bags or assistants. A black duffel with one shoe sticking slightly out of the zipper.
He looked tired.
“Where did you sleep?”
“Hotel.”
“Which one?”
He named a property ten blocks from their wedding venue.
“You could have used one of Victor’s apartments.”
“I didn’t want to.”
She set the metal box on the dining table.
Damien looked at it.
“That his?”
“Yes.”
“What’s in it?”
“Things you should have asked about before grabbing him.”
He absorbed that.
“I deserved that.”
“Maybe.”
He almost smiled.
She did not.
“What did you find?”
Damien removed his phone and opened an email chain.
“I searched my old messages.”
“You still have fourteen-year-old email?”
“Fourteen months.”
“Right.”
She was more exhausted than she realized.
He handed her the phone.
The chain began with Victor.
The first messages were vague. References to Vale, exposure, nuisance risk.
Then Elena saw a forwarded note from a private investigator.
Subject confirmed alive. Limited assets. No apparent media contact. Employment: Northline Millworks, New Jersey. Sobriety status unknown.
Her hand tightened.
“You had a private investigator following him.”
“My father did.”
“You got the report.”
“I didn’t ask for it.”
“You read it.”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell me?”
“No.”
“Then we’re back where we started.”
“There’s more.”
A later message from Damien read:
If this is really Elena’s father, she has a right to know.
Elena looked up.
Damien’s eyes were on the table.
Below that, Victor had replied:
It is not that simple.
Damien:
It seems exactly that simple.
Victor:
Call me.
There were no messages for two days.
Then Damien sent:
Understood. Keep him away until after the wedding.
Elena’s chest tightened.
“What did he say on the call?”
Damien’s face looked older than it had yesterday.
“That Thomas stole from your trust. That your mother had been afraid of him near the end.”
Thomas had never said that.
Elena’s voice dropped.
“Afraid how?”
“He implied abuse.”
“Did he say abuse?”
“No.”
“What did he say?”
“He said Claire had made plans to leave.”
Elena stared.
“And you believed him.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s my father.”
There was no defense in the sentence.
That made it harder.
May you like
Damien sat.
“I also wanted to believe him.”
