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I didn’t want them to see. Hell, I want this thing out of my sight ASAP. It’s rocket fuel for every sick, disturbing thing I’m trying to forget. If missing it wouldn’t tear a fresh hole through my heart, I wouldn’t be sending it at all.
It’s like my eyes have x-ray vision. They can see through the envelope to the short words written inside, underneath three crisp hundred dollar bills.
Dear Mrs. Folwell,
This won’t bring him back, but he’s been on my mind a lot lately. I know it’s tough when it’s his birthday. Erik would’ve been twenty-eight this year. Hope this is enough to get that old boat running by your beach house. Take the money and send me another letter if it isn’t.
I’m not trying to buy peace of mind. The first few times it didn’t work, I stopped expecting miracles, even if it helps keep the bitter acid churning in my stomach from causing an ulcer.
It saves my brain from re-living the last crude jokes I swapped with that dark-eyed kid, before I watched his lifeless body hit the ground in front of me. His tags didn’t even survive the air strike. I’d say it’s a small mercy his death was quick, before the blinding hellfire incinerated everything, but that’s never been the fucking truth.
There was no mercy.
Just a stinging cancer in my soul every time his birthday rolls around, and I send his mother a card, a tradition we started the first year after his death. If she didn’t write me such kind Christmas notes, I’d stop.
But I can’t, damn it. I’m the last person on earth who remembers her only son, and misses him. We share that strange, mystical bond. Nobody else hurts today like we do.
February 21st. An infamous day of heartache that’ll stick with me for the rest of my life.
The rest of this life I’ve sworn I’ll live clean, without any killing.
Live well. It’s the best I can do to make sure Erik Folwell didn’t die for nothing, I’ve decided.
Since I swore off ending Jackson’s wretched life, it’s all I can do.
I park my truck, pushing the letter out of my head. Stepping inside the house, I instantly notice the eerie quiet. Then Red’s voice explodes from the living room.
“Jesus, dad, will you please calm down? Start over. What’s wrong with her?” Her voice pricks my ears.
I move, thudding through the house, wondering what the fuck’s happening. And where the hell is my little girl?
I find Mia sitting near the screened in porch on the side of the house, a Dr. Seuss book in her hand, and a fat shaggy tabby pressing his chin against her elbow. She looks sleepy, but there’s another emotion I don’t like pinched on her tiny face: worry.
“What’s going on, honeybee? Come to daddy.” I pick her up, placing a calming kiss on her forehead. “You okay?”
I study her eyes, peering into them. She smiles softly, nods, and maybe it’s not as bad as I feared. The anxious thump in my chest throttles back a notch. “Story time, daddy. Sadie had to get the phone.”
“How long?”
She shrugs her little shoulders. I hold her tighter, chastising myself for expecting her to become an overnight expert at telling time. Whatever Red has gotten herself into, she’s too young for this.
I kiss her on the forehead again, holding her in my arms while we trundle into the living room. Red doesn’t even acknowledge my presence, standing in the corner by the window, peering across the darkening fields while her dad’s voice rattles over the phone.
“Just get over here, please. I need the help.” I can’t tell if Peter Kelley sounds frantic or defeated. Both, perhaps. “She’s asking for you. Jackson wants to call the paramedics, but we know how that goes…”
“Well, yeah! This time, I can’t blame her. She’s upset. You won’t tell me what’s going on, and why my stupid brother came by in the first place, freaking her out. Tell him to leave for starters.”
“Sadie…it isn’t like that. Look, if there’s ever been a time to have a family talk, it’s –“
“Now. Yeah, yeah, I get it dad. Give me twenty minutes. I’ll have to bring Mia because Marshal isn’t home yet. This better not scare her.”
I’m standing behind her the whole time. The cat brushes against my ankles. I guess he feels the tension slowly strangling us, too.
“Okay, whatever,” her father says, his voice strained. “Just, please, get over. I’m afraid, Sadie.”
“Don’t be. We’ll figure this out,” she whispers, her voice softening. “If he’s being an ass, dad, please just tell me. He shouldn’t be in the middle of this anyway – hello?”
Her arm drops, the phone hanging limply in her hand. I clear my throat before she turns around, and the panic in her sweet eyes intensifies. “Oh, crap. You scared me. How long have you been standing there?”
