Marshall breaks the silence first. “You want to tell us what that is?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
Wyatt steps in gently. “Abilene. You don’t have to. But if someone left something here, especially after the evacuation…”
He trails off, letting the implication hang.
After the fire.
After everything.
I swallow hard and finally nod. “It’s… it’s a letter.”
Marshall’s brows knit. “From who?”
“I don’t know.”
That earns me a look from both of them.
“I mean it,” I say quickly, the words tumbling over each other now that they’ve started. “There’s no return address. No name. Just… this.”
I set the envelope on the table, like it might bite me if I hold it too long.
Wyatt pulls out a chair and sits. Marshall doesn’t move, but his focus sharpens, the way it does when a storm shifts direction.
“You’ve gotten one of these before?” Wyatt asks.
“Yes, but I didn’t—” I say, too fast. “I thought it was someone confused. Or cruel. Or… I don’t know. I didn’t want to make it into something bigger than it was.”
“And now?” Wyatt asks.
I take a breath that scrapes my lungs on the way in. “Now I don’t know.”
I slide the envelope open with shaking fingers and pull out the letter inside. The paper is folded neatly, creased with care.
Someone took their time with this.
I don’t know why, but that makes me feel sick.
I unfold the paper slowly. I’m afraid the words might jump out and hurt someone if I go too fast.
“I’m just going to read it,” I say, mostly to myself.
Marshall’s jaw sets. Wyatt nods once, encouraging but cautious.
I clear my throat and begin.
“Abilene, I don’t know if you will read this. I don’t know if you read my last letter either, but I feel compelled to keep trying.” I suck in a sharp breath. “Most people panic after the truth shakes them. They tell themselves it’s coincidence, or grief, or someone else’s story that doesn’t really belong to them. That would have been easier. It would also have been wrong.”
My voice wobbles on the last word. I pause, swallow, and keep going, wondering what is going on.
“Your family has always been good at keeping things tidy on the surface. The version of events that fits neatly into conversations and obituaries and what gets said out loud. But there is another version, one that lived in pauses and closed doors and things that were never quite explained to you.”
Wyatt’s brow furrows.
Marshall doesn’t move at all.
“Your grandmother was not the woman people thought she was. Not because she was worse, but because she was braver.”
