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Amy Mulligan
I take a moment to digest that letter. I read parts of it over and then over again. I can see Casey out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t glance up. I’m not ready yet.
I pull up the second letter.
Mr. Dalton,
I have received your response, and it has taken three days for me to form a coherent response. Three days of holding my husband back from storming the gates of Rockton to demand our son at gunpoint.
I would let Steve do it and stand beside him myself if I thought we stood a chance of getting one son back without leaving the other an orphan. Had an ordinary man made the threats you did, I might not take him seriously. But you are not an ordinary man. You are a monster, and I must treat you as one.
In my last letter, I held back everything I was feeling in hopes of reasoning with you. Now I have no such hope, and so I will let you know exactly what you have done. You stole our son. Stole him for your wife, and I can only pray she doesn’t understand that. Otherwise, Eric will be trapped with two monsters.
Two days after Eric disappeared, we came to you. You swore you had not seen a boy. You even offered to organize search parties. I know now that there were no search parties. For over a year—a year!—you swore you had not seen him. Then I saw him with you.
I should have snatched him back then. I should have strode over and demanded my son at gunpoint. I was terrified that he’d be hurt in any altercation—and I was certain I could reason with you—but I will never forgive myself for not trying to take him while I could.
I know now we won’t get another chance. Steve spent a week watching Rockton and saw that you do not let our son past your borders without multiple armed men accompanying him.
Despite the lies you told, despite the torment you caused us for a year, convinced our son was dead, I tried to reason with you. I offered any proof to correct the misunderstanding. But there is no misunderstanding.
You saw a child in the woods, and you stole him as if he were a puppy wandering alone, a healthy puppy who obviously had a home with people who loved him.
You knew where he came from, and you deemed us unworthy of him. You deemed yourselves more worthy.
You could tell from my letter that we are not savages eking out a meager existence in the forest. It didn’t matter.
You stole our son, and when I asked—reasonably—for his return, you threatened to take our other son as well, to take him legally by having us ruled unfit parents. As I suspect you realize from our files, I was working on my master’s in social work, and Steve was a police officer. We both know how you could manipulate the system and convince the authorities that anyone living as we do is neglecting their children.
You gave us impossible choices. Let you keep our one son, or you will take both. Stay away from Rockton, or we will be shot on sight. You are forcing us to do the unthinkable—to give up one child to protect both.
We will be watching, Mr. Dalton. We will always be watching. If Eric is harmed in any way, we will do what we must, at whatever risk is required.
If we get the chance to take him, we will. I can only imagine what lie you’ve told him, what you’ve done to keep him from running for the forest at the first opportunity. It doesn’t matter. He will not be a child forever, and we will not stay away forever. We will get our son back someday. And you will pay for what you have done.
I’m a pacifist, as is my husband. We are out here because we wish to peacefully coexist with nature and with others. I have not wished ill on anyone since I first came to Rockton and put my past behind me. That has changed. I have only one wish for you, Gene Dalton. May you rot in hell for what you did to Eric, to me, to our family.
Amy Mulligan
I set the tablet down. I put it on the bed, and I think. I’m too numb to do anything else. I can just think, my mother’s words running through my head, her anguish bleeding from every line.
May you rot in hell, Gene Dalton.
Yes. That’s all I can say. Yes.
Rot in hell, Gene Dalton.
There is no excuse. No “other side of the story.” He put my parents in an impossible position, and they made the only choice they could—ensure I was safe in Rockton and bide their time while protecting Jacob.
I can’t imagine what pain that must have caused, every instinct screaming to make the emotional choice when you know you must make the logical one.
I pass the tablet to Casey. She reads the letters while I stand by the window, staring out, not wanting to watch her expression as she reads. I have my back to her, and I’m listening for the reaction that will tell me she’s done. The cursing. The anger. The outrage.
Instead, there is nothing. Silence and more silence before I catch the faintest noise, and I turn to see she’s put the tablet down, and she’s sitting there, head dropped forward, hair curtaining her face. The sound comes again. The smallest catch of breath.
I walk over and reach down to tuck her hair behind her ear. She lifts her face to me, and it’s streaked with tears, her eyes red from silent crying.
I hesitate. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen Casey cry. That’s not how she expresses emotion. It’s not how she was raised to express emotion, and that’s why she was doing it so quietly.
