“I don’t know how much he read.

I only know he accepted a letter meant for you and no reply followed.”

Something colder than fear settled inside me.

The unanswered letters were no longer an accident of the mail.

They were another choice somebody had made for me.

PART 9

Camille Hart visited the next afternoon, bringing her identification, a simple folder, and no entourage.

She was in her late fifties with silver-threaded hair and a measured way of speaking that reminded me of the school principals my mother respected.