We bought a place in a quiet neighborhood, far away from memories of Karen. We installed a security system that rivals Fort Knox. Emily is healing.
Her speech came back fully after a month of therapy, though she still stammers when she’s stressed. The physical bruises faded, but the emotional ones are taking longer. She trusts less.
She checks the locks three times a night. Last week, a letter arrived from the Washington Corrections Center for Women. The return address was in Karen’s handwriting.
I found it in the trash can, unopened. “You didn’t read it?” I asked Emily. She looked up from her book, her eyes clear for the first time in months.
“I don’t need to,” she said. “I know what it says. She’ll say she’s sorry, but she’ll mean she’s sorry she got caught.
She’ll say she loves me, but she proved that she loves my money more.”
She took my hand, squeezing it—a gesture that used to be weak, now returning to strength. “She told me nobody would believe me,” Emily whispered. “She told me I was alone.”
“She was wrong.”
“I know,” Emily smiled.
“Because you were watching. You were always watching over me.”
I kissed her forehead. “Always.”
We left the letter in the trash.
We didn’t need her words. We had the truth, captured in thirty-eight minutes of silence, and that was enough.
