Chapter 9 - The Final Letter
In the autumn of 2027, a white envelope bearing an official stamp from FCI Fort Dix arrived at my office.
It was addressed to Maya Sterling.
I sat at my desk, looking at the envelope for a long moment. I opened a silver letter opener, sliced the top edge cleanly, and pulled out the single sheet of lined notebook paper inside.
The handwriting was jagged, desperate, and shaky.
Maya,
I am writing this from a three-man cell in Fort Dix. My mother is sick in Danbury, and they won't let me visit her. My lawyers say I won't be eligible for parole until 2041.
Every day I sit here, I think about that morning. I think about handing you that makeup bag. I thought I was in control. I thought I was strong. I didn't realize that while I was shouting at you, you were quietly dismantling my entire life.
I lost everything, Maya. My company, my money, my home, my mother, and my freedom. People in here know what I did to you, and they treat me like trash. I have nothing left.
I know you will never forgive me. But I need you to know that I know the truth now. You were never weak. I was just too terrified to admit that you were superior to me in every way.
Daniel.
I finished reading the letter.
I didn't feel a surge of triumph. I didn't feel sadness. I felt a complete, absolute neutrality—the ultimate form of victory over a person who had once tried to dominate my existence.
I picked up the paper, walked over to the small marble fireplace in the corner of my office, and struck a match.
May you like
I held the flame to the edge of the letter. The fire caught quickly, curling the blue lines and black ink into bright orange embers before reducing the paper to a pile of grey ash on the hearth.
I wiped my hands, walked back to my desk, and picked up my pen to sign the construction blueprints for our fifth shelter.
