I dropped the lawn mower and stormed inside when I heard my daughter crying. My mother-in-law had her pinned to the floor, one hand over her mouth, hissing, "

One year after the trial.

A thick white envelope bearing the seal of the State Correctional Facility for Women arrived in our mailbox.

It was addressed to Sarah Vance.

I stood in the kitchen, holding the unopened envelope over the island counter—the same counter where Marlene’s purse had been dumped fifteen months ago.

Sarah walked into the kitchen, carrying a basket of fresh laundry. She stopped when she saw the envelope in my hand.

“It’s from her,” I said quietly.

Sarah set the basket down on a chair. She walked over, took the envelope from my hand, and looked at her mother’s handwriting on the front—the tight, precise cursive that used to make Sarah flinch as a young girl.

She didn't tear it open. She didn't look afraid.

Sarah walked over to the kitchen stove, picked up a box of matches from the mantle, and struck one against the box. A small, bright yellow flame burst to life.

She held the corner of the envelope over the flame until the paper caught fire. She dropped the burning letter into a glass bowl sitting on the counter, watching silently as the dark cursive turned to black ash and crumbled into nothingness.

“Aren't you going to read it?” I asked gently.

Sarah looked up at me, her brown eyes clear, calm, and filled with deep, unwavering peace.