I am sorry I did not contact you before. I'd like to meet you, if you're willing. Your son, Connor.
He hesitated only a second before pressing send.
Fern wrapped her arms around him and murmured, "Whatever happens, you're not doing it alone."
Down on the carpet, Coral looked up—from her drawing, from her little bright world of crayons and calm—and smiled at them. She had been listening with one ear, as she always did. There were likely to be questions later once she had finished her drawing.
And for the first time since his father left, Connor felt a tentative hope to heal those buried wounds grow inside him.
He was not doing this for closure, but for the new roots finally digging into the soil.
A family that healed forward, not backward.
This story didn't end with the letter.
It began with the reply that came ten minutes later.
I've been waiting for this, son.
About Matilda
The interview room was two degrees colder than it needed to be. Dr. Terrance Scott preferred it that way.
Neutral walls carried the sterile chill common to secure hospitals in the way all such rooms were designed to strip away any hint of personality. A bolted table and two plastic chairs added to the ambience. A ceiling camera looked on with its unblinking red light. The window was reinforced and too narrow to offer anything except a slice of grey afternoon.
Matilda sat with one ankle hooked over the other, restrained only by the locked reenforced door. Grey prison-issue sweatpants. Pale jumper. No warpaint. And yet she still looked composed, almost bored by the going-ons.
Her hair had grown longer again, bright-red and loose around her shoulders. Silver threaded the crimson but took nothing away from its beauty. She pushed it back with slender fingers and smiled at the man across from her.
“I’d kill for a fag,” she said conversationally, then tipped her head and smiled wider. “Oops. Not the best choice of words under the circumstances.”
Dr. Scott did not react.
He was in his early fifties, sharply dressed beneath his white coat, dark tie perfectly straight, spectacles low on his nose as he reviewed the notes in front of him. His face was composed in that of men whohad spent decades in rooms with dangerous people and had learned to expect the worst.
He clicked the recorder on.
“This is Dr. Terrance Scott, Consultant Forensic Psychiatrist, on the fourteenth of March at 2:12 p.m. I have been retained by the court to assess Ms. Matilda Havers with regard to her mental competency at the time of the alleged offences and her current fitness to participate in proceedings.” He looked up. “Ms. Hughes, before we begin, I need to confirm that you understand the purpose of this interview.”
Matilda stretched slightly in her chair and fluttered her lashes. “You’re here to decide whether I’m mad or bad. Isn’t that right, pudding?”
Dr. Scott folded his hands. “I’m here to assess your mental state, your understanding of events, and whether you are able to comprehend the legal proceedings against you.”
She smiled. “That’s a lot of long words. Not sure I understand.”
The good doctor fixed her an unblinking stare.
“It says here that you have an IQ of 149.”
Matilda smiled, “A high IQ can be a problem in certain circumstances. Say if your are planning a heist… or a murder.”
He continued as though she had not spoken. “This interview is being recorded. You may refuse to answer any question. You may ask to stop the interview at any time. Do you understand that?”
“Yes.”
“Do you consent to proceed?”
“I do.” She tilted her head. “Do you always sound this sexy, Doctor, or is that just for women in custody?”
