Chapter 7 - Picking Up the Pieces
Two weeks passed before Ethan and I were cleared to return to Columbus from the temporary apartment Marisol—my sister, who had driven down from Chicago the moment she heard the news—had set us up in.
Our house on Maple Street was still standing, though the kitchen had been sealed off by the county fire marshal pending structural repairs and forensic cleanup. Neighbors had rallied around us, dropping off casseroles, cards, and offers of support, though most of them still looked at me with a mixture of pity and disbelief when we passed on the sidewalk.
It was hard to reconcile the quiet, friendly neighborhood we thought we lived in with the nightmare that had unfolded behind our locked front door.
On a sunny Tuesday afternoon, I sat at the dining table of our temporary apartment, going through a stack of mail Marisol had collected from our post office box. Most of it was junk or official notices from the bank regarding the impending foreclosure of the mortgage Andrew had secretly mismanaged.
Then, a plain white envelope caught my eye. It had no return address, just my name written in neat, familiar cursive.
My breath hitched.
I set the rest of the mail down and carefully slid my finger under the paper flap, pulling out a single sheet of lined notebook paper.
Caroline,
I know you probably never want to read a word from me again, and I don't blame you. Sitting here in this holding cell, surrounded by concrete and steel, I’ve had entirely too much time to think about what I threw away.
I thought I was protecting our future by fixing a mistake that had grown too big to hide. But looking back at what I did to you and Ethan... I realize I became a monster long before I ever picked up that gas can.
The prosecutor offered a plea deal today. Thirty years, no parole for twenty. I’m going to sign it. I’m not going to put you and Ethan through a trial where you’d have to relive that night on the stand.
I don't expect forgiveness. I don't even expect you to remember me with anything other than hatred. But I wanted you to know that the dinner I made... I really did love cooking for you both once upon a time.
Goodbye, Caroline. —Andrew.
I stared at the letter for a long time, my fingers resting lightly against the paper. There were no tears in my eyes, no sudden surge of anger or grief—just a profound, hollow emptiness where a marriage used to live.
May you like
I folded the letter neatly, placed it back into the envelope, and slid it into the bottom drawer of the desk, locking it away alongside the police reports and hospital bills.
It was over. The ghost of the man I thought I married was finally laid to rest.
