Maya reads it. Her jaw works. She turns back to the stove.
"Garlic," she says. "Someone burned breakfast yesterday. There's a fresh head in the drawer."
Chapter 26
Maya
The second letter is in my campus mailbox. The apartment mailbox was the first breach. This one is campus property.
The one assigned to student journalists in the Chronicle office, a slot in the wall of the third-floor bullpen with my name printed on a strip of tape beside it. To reach it, he had to know the building, the floor, the office I enter like it belongs to me.
My hand tightens around the envelope hard enough to crease the corner. He has been on campus. He found my apartment first. Now this.
I'm standing in the Chronicle office at 9 AM on a Thursday with a coffee in one hand and a white envelope in the other, and my dead name is printed in neat, typed font on the front.
Typed.
The typed letters sit too straight on the envelope.
The first letter was handwritten and raw, a man fresh out of prison writing by hand because that was what he had. This one is clean, controlled, formal. He has access to a printer now. He has time. He has a place to sit down and think about font choice while writing my dead name like he has any fucking right to touch it.
He has settled in.
I slide the envelope into my bag without opening it, set my coffee on my desk, and sit down before my knees can decide they are done holding me up.
I open my laptop. The Title IX piece waits where I left it, cursor blinking in the middle of a paragraph about compliance metrics. My hands stay steady because I make them stay steady.
Inside my bag, the envelope waits like something with a timer.
Zoë arrives at 9:30 AM carrying fabric swatches and coffee. She drops into the chair beside mine and starts talking about her senior collection fitting, her voice fast and certain, full of opinions about draping and bias cut. I let her talk. I let her fill the air until the buzz in my skull has to compete with fabric and fit.
At 10:15 AM, I take the letter to the bathroom.
Third stall. Door locked.
The tile is too white. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Someone has left a smear of pink lip gloss on the edge of the sink, bright and stupidly normal against all that sterile white.
I open the envelope carefully, because evidence matters even when my fingers want to rip the damn thing apart.
One page. Typed. Serif font, Times New Roman, centered at the top like a title page:
For Charlotte
My dear girl,
I've thought about how to begin this letter more times than I can count. There are so many things I want to say to you, andI'm aware that you may not be ready to hear them. That's okay. I have patience. I've always had patience when it comes to you.
I want you to know that I've changed. The years I spent away gave me time to reflect, to understand what went wrong, to grieve the family we lost. I take responsibility for my part in what happened. I know I wasn't the father you deserved. I know I made mistakes that caused real harm, and I carry the weight of that every day.
But I also know that what was reported—what was said in that courtroom—wasn't the whole story. You were young. Your mother was frightened and angry, and I don't blame her for that, but frightened people sometimes shape the truth to match their fear. I've forgiven her for that. I hope someday you can forgive me for mine.
I'm not asking for anything. Not yet. I just want you to know that I'm here. I'm nearby. I'm well, and I'm thinking of you, and when you're ready—if you're ever ready—I would like the chance to sit across from you and hear your voice again.
I love you. I have always loved you. That has never changed, and it never will.
Your father
I read it twice.
