Chapter 18 - The Letters from Coleman
In late August, six months after the sentencing, a thick manila envelope arrived at my design office in midtown Atlanta, forwarded through Evelyn Cross’s legal chambers.
Inside were three handwritten letters on lined prison stationary, bearing the return address of the Federal Correctional Institution in Coleman, Florida.
The first letter was from Chloe.
Her handwriting, once sharp and confident on corporate tax forms, was shaky and erratic. She wrote of the grueling twelve-hour shifts in the prison laundry, the unbearable Florida humidity, and the utter isolation of being abandoned by every colleague she had ever known. She begged for forgiveness, asking if I would consider writing a letter of support to the parole board to reduce her sentence so she could see her mother.
I didn't finish reading it. I dropped it into the paper shredder beside my desk.
The second letter was from Brenda, sent from a subsidized senior living apartment in Murfreesboro. She complained about the small size of her room, the noisy neighbors, and the fact that Arthur’s pension barely covered their generic medications. She wrote that family ought to forgive and forget, and asked if I could find it in my heart to send five hundred dollars a month “to help keep a roof over her head.”
I fed Brenda’s letter into the shredder immediately behind Chloe’s.
The third letter was from Luke.
I held it in my hand for a long moment, feeling the cheap, thin paper between my fingers. I unfolded the page.
*Hannah,*
*They have me working in the prison library here. Every time I open a catalog on architecture or interior design, your name is the only thing I see. I don't sleep anymore. When I close my eyes, I keep seeing you standing in the diner, looking at me like I was a stranger.*
*You were right. I was a coward. I let my mother run our lives, I let Chloe use my name, and I treated the best thing that ever happened to me like an appliance. I don't expect you to write back. I know you won't. But I needed you to know that the hardest part of being in this place isn't the concrete walls or the guards.*
*The hardest part is knowing that every dish you refused to wash was a mirror showing me exactly what I was.*
*I’m sorry.*
*Luke.*
I read the words once. Then twice.
I felt no anger. I felt no vengeful satisfaction. I simply felt an overwhelming, profound sense of closure.
May you like
I walked over to the shredder, slid the final page between the steel teeth, and watched Luke Vance’s final apology turn into ribbons of white dust.
***
