I forgot to check the mail when I came home Saturday night. I was too damn tired, physically and emotionally, after my day with Katie. When I finally manage to check it this morning, Molly following at my heels, seeing the single envelope with small, neat print on the front in the box throws me. I rarely receive mail, considering I pay most of my bills online. So when I have a handwritten letter, that’s especially odd. The only ones I’d received in the past came to a different box, to a different person . . .
Unease slipping down my spine, I grab the envelope and look at the return address. There isn’t one.
But I’d recognize that handwriting anywhere.
There was a movie I watched a long time ago, though I can’t remember what it was called. Some eighties chick flick, I think, which is probably why I shoved it out of my mind. There’s a line from the movie that stuck in my memory, one I always think of when I see anything from this particular person.
You have the handwriting of a serial killer.
The letter is from my father. Sent to my address—my Ethan Williams address. The address he’s not supposed to know.
Shit.
I clutch the letter in my hand, crumpling the envelope as I make my way back into my house, shutting and locking the door behind me. As if it’s that simple to keep the bad memories out. Molly runs around my feet, excited, and I absently pat her head, the envelope seeming to burn into my palm. I’m tempted to throw it away. Never read it, pretend I never even received it.
But I can’t do that. I have to know what he says. I refuse to ever let him get the upper hand again. I don’t care that he’s in prison for life and can never get out. No one is safe when it comes to Aaron Monroe.
Least of all me.
I collapse on the couch and tear into the envelope, pulling out the single sheet of lined paper with shaky hands. His handwriting is small, precise, almost square-shaped. And since he’s been in jail, it’s like he’s turned it into an art form, perfecting his handwriting over the years.
Taking a deep breath, I start to read his letter.
Dear Will,
Or should I call you Ethan? I find it funny that you changed your name. Not that I’m surprised really. I guess you’re in hiding, afraid to be associated with me. I can understand that, yet it hurts, too. It hurts real bad. A man should be proud of his boy and a son should be proud of his father, but I guess I haven’t given you much to be proud of through the years.
Lisa Swanson is the one who told me you changed your name and gave me your address. I appreciate her honesty. She’s never been anything less than kind. She’s been a real blessing in my life lately. It’s a life that’s not filled with many blessings, so hers is most appreciated.
Have you met her? She says you two have talked over the phone but it’s always been a brief conversation. That’s a real mistake on your part, son. You should get to know her. She’s an interesting woman. One who’s been very vocal in getting me what I want and understanding my desire to speak to the world. To share my side of the story. No one has ever heard my side before, beyond what’s in the court records.
But right now, more than I want to tell my story, the thing I want most in this world is to see you.
I miss you, son. With much reflection, I’ve come to realize that I’ve done you wrong and I need your forgiveness. All those years you suffered living with me, it was unfair. You were just a kid and I took out all my anger and frustration on you. Until eventually that wasn’t enough, and I started taking my anger out on other people.
Like that poor little Katherine Watts.
I can’t take back what I’ve done, to you or to those other poor souls, may they all rest in peace. I want to confess my sins, Will. I want to cleanse my soul and make life right with God and my victims and you.
I’ve already said it in this letter but I’m saying it again: I need your forgiveness. I want Katherine’s forgiveness, too. And the only way I can get that is if you both do the interview with Lisa. That way I can send my message through Lisa to each of you. And maybe eventually, I can convince you to come see me in person. That would give me so much joy, but I know these sorts of decisions take time.
It’s been years since I’ve seen you, looked into your eyes, heard your voice. I bet you’ve changed. I bet I’d hardly recognize you, son, and that breaks my heart. It tears me apart, knowing that I can’t be with you, that we can’t be a family. You don’t want to acknowledge that your old man is in prison and I get that, I do. But we’re family. We share the same blood. And because as much as I know I should, I never want to let you go.
You’re a part of me. You are my legacy. And I want us to have a relationship before it’s too late and I’m dead and gone. Or worse, what if something happens to you? I could never forgive myself.
I want you to think real hard and consider my suggestion. The girl has already talked to Lisa once. It won’t hurt to talk to her again. I think my request is pretty simple. The least you could do is honor it. Honor me.
After all, I am your father.
Dad