Under three store receipts was a thick stack of white envelopes.

Every one had Megan’s unmistakable handwriting on the front, addressed to my private box at the main post office on Commerce Street.

The first envelope carried a red postmark dated March fourteenth.

I ripped open the top edge and pulled out a single sheet of lined paper.

Megan wrote that two men had walked up her driveway one afternoon while she was sitting on her front porch.

She wrote that they gave her twenty-four hours to pack up and leave Davidson County for good, or they’d see to it that her pregnancy ended early.