Chapter 18 - The Final Letter
The years continued to sprint forward, bringing immense joy and profound growth to our peaceful household.
Sophie blossomed into a brilliant, compassionate teenager with a fierce sense of justice.
She joined the high school debate team, volunteered at the local animal shelter, and filled our home with endless laughter.
When she was sixteen, a strange piece of mail arrived in our locked mailbox.
It was a standard, state-issued envelope, stamped with the seal of the maximum-security federal penitentiary.
It was addressed to my maiden name, written in a shaky, almost illegible handwriting.
I stood in the kitchen, staring at the envelope as a cold chill briefly brushed against the back of my neck.
Preston had been locked in a cage for nearly ten years at this point.
I grabbed a sharp paring knife and carefully sliced the top of the envelope open.
Inside was a single piece of lined yellow notebook paper.
The handwriting was a chaotic mess, a stark contrast to the perfect, gold calligraphy he used to demand for his wedding.
"Evelyn," the letter began.
"I am sick."
"The prison doctors say it is late-stage liver failure."
"I have no money, no friends in here, and mom and dad will not answer my collect calls."
"I am begging you, as my flesh and blood, to please send money for a private lawyer."
"I don't want to die in this concrete box."
"I am sorry for what happened to Sophie, but it was just a mistake."
"Please don't let me die alone."
I read the letter twice, analyzing the pathetic words he had chosen.
Even now, facing his own mortality, he still referred to a brutal assault as a simple "mistake."
He still lacked any fundamental capacity for genuine remorse or accountability.
He was entirely consumed by his own suffering, completely blind to the agonizing pain he had inflicted on so many innocent people.
I walked over to the gas stove and turned the heavy metal knob.
A bright blue flame roared to life.
I held the corner of the yellow paper directly into the fire.
I watched silently as the flames consumed the desperate pleas of a dying monster.
The paper curled and blackened, turning into fragile gray ash.
I dropped the burning remnants into the stainless steel sink and washed them down the drain with cold water.
I did not write him back.
I did not send him a single dime.
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I simply erased his final words from the face of the earth.
He had chosen his path, and now he had to walk it all the way to the bitter end.
