Chapter 6 - The Unclaimed Letter
Two weeks after the arraignment, life had settled into a quiet, healing rhythm at my house.
Sophie was enrolled in a wonderful local kindergarten just down the street, where she had already made friends and discovered a love for finger-painting and playground swings. The nightmares of the attic were slowly fading, replaced by bedtime stories, shared laughter, and the unconditional warmth of a real home.
On a crisp Tuesday afternoon, the postal carrier dropped off a thick stack of mail in the aluminum box by the driveway.
I flipped through the envelopes—utility bills, junk mail, and a formal notice from the county tax assessor regarding the Portland property. But at the bottom of the stack was a plain, unmarked white envelope bearing a local postmark from a maximum-security women's correctional facility sixty miles south of Portland.
Sender: Trisha Miller.
I stood in the entryway for a long moment, staring at the cursive handwriting scrawled across the front. Part of me wanted to toss it straight into the kitchen trash can without opening it. But something told me that ignoring a monster only gives them power in the dark.
I took the letter to the kitchen island, sliced open the top with a butter knife, and unfolded a single sheet of lined notebook paper.
Elmer, If you're reading this, it means my lawyers failed and I'm stuck rotting in this hellhole while Dennis blames everyone but himself for everything that went wrong. You think you've won, don't you? You think saving that ungrateful brat makes you some kind of hero. There's something you don't know about Eleanor. Something Dennis and I kept hidden because we knew it would destroy you just as much as it destroyed us. Check the safe deposit box at First National Bank under the name 'E.V. Trust.' The truth about what really happened to her isn't in the attic, Elmer. It's waiting for you there. Enjoy your peaceful little life while it lasts. - Trisha.
My hands grew ice-cold.
The letter fluttered down onto the granite countertop.
Eleanor.
For five years, everyone had assumed she had simply fled the state to escape Dennis’s abuse. But Trisha’s taunting words—written with venom from a prison cell—hinted at a far darker truth.
May you like
I looked at the clock. It was 2:30 p.m. Sophie wouldn't be home from school until 3:45 p.m., picked up by Rosa Martinez, who graciously helped out every afternoon.
I grabbed my car keys, my wallet, and the letter, walking straight out the front door.
