Seven Yellow Folders Exposed What My Parents Had Done to Ethan
I reached into the pocket of my Kevlar vest, took out a small white index card, and held it out between us.
“What’s this?” she asked, her eyes falling to the handwritten ink.
“It’s a post office box address here in Oakridge,” I said.
“If you want to write to Ethan, you can send your letters there.
I’ll read them first, and if there are no money demands and no guilt in them, I’ll pass them on to him.”
She stared down at the card in her shaking hand.
“A post office box?” she asked.
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