Chapter 9 - The Letter
Two months later, a thick manila envelope arrived at my home in Seattle, bearing a official stamp from the Federal Bureau of Prisons in Florence, Colorado.
I sat on my outdoor patio, holding a cup of hot coffee, watching the sunrise over the mountains.
I opened the envelope. Inside was a single handwritten letter from Daniel Dawson.
I unfolded the paper and read his cramped handwriting:
Claire,
I don't expect you to forgive me. I know I don't deserve it. I am writing this from a cell where I will spend the next twenty-three years of my life. Every day, I look at the concrete wall and realize that I traded a real woman, a real love, and a real life for paper money and a mountain of lies.
I saw the news about your new Seattle headquarters on the prison television last week. You looked beautiful, strong, and powerful. You built an empire out of the ruins I left behind.
I heard about the educational trust you set up for Leo. Vanessa told her lawyer about it. I didn't deserve your mercy, and my son certainly didn't deserve your kindness, but you gave it anyway. You proved to everyone—and to me—that you were always the better person.
I will never contact you again. I just wanted you to know that the dead man in Denver is finally where he belongs.
Goodbye, Claire.
Daniel.
I folded the letter slowly, holding it in my hands for a moment.
I didn't feel anger. I didn't feel sadness. I felt only a quiet, peaceful sense of finality.
I picked up a small brass lighter from the table, struck the flame, and held the corner of the letter to the fire.
May you like
The paper caught quickly, bright orange flames consuming the words, curling the edges into soft black ash. I dropped the burning paper into a ceramic bowl, watching as the last remnant of Daniel Dawson’s memory burned away into dust.
A gentle morning breeze swept across the patio, lifting the black ashes into the air, carrying them far away over the mountains until they vanished completely into the clear blue sky.
