Chapter 8 - The Letters from Logan
A year passed in a blur of immense growth, quiet evenings, and profound peace.
By Noah’s first birthday, Bennett Holdings had expanded its operations across four continents, becoming one of the most respected supply-chain analytics firms in the Midwest. I had bought a breathtaking historic home near the lake in Evanston, with a massive fenced garden where Noah could run freely on the green grass.
One rainy Thursday evening, while Noah slept peacefully upstairs, I sat by the roaring stone fireplace in my living room with a glass of red wine.
On the small side table sat an unopened envelope stamped with the return address: Logan Correctional Center - Offender #B-99412.
It was from Bianca.
I had received three letters from Ethan over the past year—desperate, rambling pleas for forgiveness, promises that he had changed, begging for photos of Noah. I had burned every single one of them without reading past the first line.
But Bianca’s letter was different.
I opened the envelope with a silver letter opener.
Inside was a single sheet of lined notebook paper written in shaky, hurried handwriting:
Claire,
I’m writing this from the educational wing of the facility. My appeal was formally denied last week.
I spent the last fourteen months hating you. I spent every night telling myself that you were a monster who ruined my life, who stole Ethan from me, who destroyed my future.
But last week, we watched a news broadcast in the dayroom about the Bennett Foundation’s new scholarship program for single mothers pursuing financial degrees. I saw you holding your son in front of the camera.
And for the first time, I realized something that terrifyingly clear: Ethan didn't love me. He used my money, my father's connections, and my vanity to replace the woman he couldn't control. He lied to me about you every single day. He told me you were insane, that you were trying to drain his accounts, that you hated him.
I pushed you in that garage because I was terrified that he was going to go back to you. I let his lies turn me into a monster.
I don't expect you to forgive me. I know I almost killed your baby. I accept my sentence. But I needed you to know that I finally see the truth.
Ethan Cole was the disease. You were just the cure.
— Bianca
I stared at the letter for a long moment. The firelight flickered across the ink, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor.
May you like
I didn't write back. I didn't need to.
I simply folded the paper in half, tossed it into the open flames of the fireplace, and watched the white paper curl into black ash until it disappeared completely.
