Chapter 35 - THE HANDWRITING
Corinne left prison on a rainy Thursday morning.
Of course it rained.
I hated the weather for being theatrical.
There were cameras outside the facility despite her request for privacy. News footage showed a gray van pulling beneath the covered entrance. Corinne emerged wearing black trousers, a plain coat and no makeup. She looked older than she had through prison glass. Not destroyed. Not redeemed. Older. A reporter shouted, “Do you have a message for Ethan Carter?” Corinne stopped.
I leaned closer to the television.
She said:
“No.”
Then got into the van.
That was all.
No apology for cameras.
No claim of innocence.
No plea for forgiveness.
The reentry facility was seventy-three miles away. I knew because I had checked. Then I hated myself for checking. I knew the route. The travel time. The supervision rules. The times she was permitted to leave for work.
My therapist asked:
“How much of that information do you actually need?”
“All of it.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
I stared at him.
“Some.”
“Which part?”
“That she cannot come near Maisie.”
“Good.”
“The rest?”
“You tell me.”
I deleted the route from my phone.
Not the legal alerts.
Not the safety plan.
Just the route.
At home, Maisie pretended release day meant nothing. She did homework. Complained about dinner. Practiced soccer in the yard until dark.
Then at bedtime she appeared in my doorway.
“Is she outside?”
“No.”
“You checked?”
I almost said yes.
I had.
“Security is active and there’s no indication she’s anywhere near us.”
“That’s lawyer talk.”
“She isn’t outside.”
Maisie nodded.
Then whispered, “I thought I wouldn’t be scared.”
“You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I barely remember her.”
“Fear doesn’t always care what you remember.”
She climbed onto my bed the way she had when she was six.
“Can I sleep here?”
“Yes.”
Ten minutes later she was asleep.
I was still awake at two.
My phone lit up.
Unknown number.
My heart stopped.
I answered.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice.
“Mr. Carter?”
Not Corinne.
“My name is Dana Morris. I’m Corinne Vale’s parole officer.”
I sat up.
“What happened?”
“Nothing dangerous. I’m calling because Ms. Vale reported an unsolicited approach.”
“By whom?”
“A producer from the documentary.”
I closed my eyes.
“They went to her residence?”
“Near her workplace.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“She turned over a letter the producer attempted to give her.”
My grip tightened.
“What letter?”
“It is addressed to your daughter.”
Everything inside me went cold.
“From who?”
“We don’t know.”
“Where is it?”
“With law enforcement.”
“What does it say?”
Dana paused.
“Mr. Carter, I think Detective Grant should discuss that with you.”
Grant.
I had not heard his voice in years.
He called twenty minutes later.
The letter had one sentence.
MAISIE DESERVES TO KNOW WHAT HER FATHER BURIED AT BELLMERE.
I stared toward the bedroom door where my daughter slept.
“I didn’t bury anything.”
Grant’s voice stayed calm.
“I know.”
“Then who wrote it?”
“We’re working on that.”
I looked at the time.
2:23 a.m.
May you like
Corinne had been free less than one day.
And someone was already trying to use her release to get to my daughter.
