Page 161 of We Are All Guilty Here

Jude laughed to give herself a reason not to cry.

“The morning that Dad was killed he was writing a letter. Cole and I walked in on him, and he slipped it into a folder. Then we went to Adam Huntsinger’s house, and—” Emmy shrugged. “He never got to finish it. It’s not clear who he was writing it to, but I think it was meant for you.”

Jude’s heart started tapping like a snare drum. She watched Emmy reach into her back pocket, take out a folded sheet of lined notebook paper. Jude opened her purse, stretching out the act of locating her reading glasses, opening the case. Her hand only shook a little when she put them on. She unfolded the paper. Saw the date. Gerald’s old-fashioned handwriting.

Dear Daughter—

I thought I’d have a million words to say to you, but now that I’m sitting down to write them, I only have three. I’m so

Jude read it again. Then she turned over the page. There was nothing on the back. “That’s it?I’m so—and then nothing?”

“Yep,” Emmy said. “Like death Mad Libs.”

“Proud,” Jude said, because she knew that Gerald hadn’t addressed the letter to her. Emmy lived in his house. He had always called her daughter. “That’s the third word. He wanted you to know he was proud.”

“No, I think the third word wassorry. He was writing it to you. He was telling youI’m so sorry.”

Jude appreciated the generosity, but she knew that was a stretch. “We’ll never know.”

“Maybe,” Emmy said. “But apologies were on Dad’s mind that morning. He brought me and Tommy into his office to tell us he was putting Myrna in a facility. He said that she was already gone. That the woman who was our mother was as good as dead. And he apologized to both of us for waiting so long to put her in this godawful place.”

Jude folded the letter on the table between them. “I’m glad he took that decision out of your hands. It’s a hard one to make.”

“You’re giving me platitudes when I’m trying to give you answers.” Emmy sounded frustrated. “After Dad was shot, we had this moment before he died. He was looking at me, and he wasn’t confused or disoriented. He was right there with me, and he said, ‘Tell your mother I’m sorry.’”

The world shifted again. Jude made herself hold eye contact with Emmy, even as she broke out into a cold sweat. Had Emmy figured it out? Was she trying to tell Jude that she knew?

“I told Mom a few days later.”

Jude’s breath was caught in her chest. Her hands were shaking.

“I felt like an idiot, but I told her. She had no idea what I was talking about. Mom doesn’t remember me, let alone that I’m her daughter.”

Jude tried to steady herself. The guilt of her secret was making her mind leap to the wrong conclusions. She was acting like a suspect during an interrogation. She was going to make a stupid mistake. “What am I missing?”

“The obvious. Think about it. Dad had already apologized to me and Tommy that morning. Then he told me to tell Mom he was sorry. That only leaves you. Dad wrote the apology letter to you.” Emmy unfolded the paper, smoothed it flat on the concrete. “‘Dear Daughter, I’m so sorry.’”

The wind picked at the corners of the page. Jude took off her reading glasses. Folded them back into the case. Emmy was the one who’d missed something. On the morning of his death, Gerald Clifton had said that his wife was effectively gone. He had known as he lay in the street that his own life was reaching its end. His forty-two-year-old agreement would finally be complete. Jude had promised she wouldn’t step foot back in Clifton County until both of her parents were dead. Which meant Gerald hadn’t been seeking forgiveness from Myrna.

He’d been seeking forgiveness from Emmy’s mother, Jude.

“Shit.” Emmy had taken her phone out of her pocket to read a message. “Taybee voluntold me to bring potato salad to the potluck. She’s asking if you can do the deviled eggs. I’ve got Myrna’s recipes. We can help each other if you want?”

Jude looked into the clear, startling blue of her daughter’s eyes.

“Okay.”