Chapter 8 - The Ghost in the Mail
A year after the night at Hidden Hills, my life had returned to a rhythm of quiet, profound fulfillment. My architecture firm had expanded into Chicago and Denver, winning three national awards for sustainable urban design. My loft in St. Paul was filled with music, light, and laughter.
One rainy Tuesday afternoon, Maya walked into my private office holding a single thick brown envelope.
"This came through certified mail from the Ramsey County Sheriff’s Department, boss," Maya said, setting it on my desk. "It’s marked 'Personal and Confidential.'"
I opened the envelope. Inside was a thick stack of handwritten letters on yellow lined legal paper, along with a formal legal notice from Jackson’s defense attorney.
I picked up the first letter. The handwriting was messy, jagged, and frantic.
Nora, I know you won't answer my calls, but I am writing this from my cell. I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see the blood running down your face at the dinner table. I see the look in your eyes when you picked up your phone.
I was wrong, Nora. I was completely wrong about everything. I thought I was holding you back, but you were the only thing keeping my life from falling apart. Since you left, everything I touched turned to dust. My mother hates me. She blames me for losing the house. Liam won't speak my name.
I'm not asking for your forgiveness. I know I don't deserve it. But I'm asking you to sign a release for the civil restitution fund. If you release the claim on my remaining secondary accounts, my mother can at least buy a small condo in St. Cloud. Please, Nora. Don't let her die in poverty.
Jackson.
I read through the letter slowly, feeling no anger, no satisfaction, and no pain.
Jackson was still playing the victim. Even from a federal prison cell, he was attempting to use guilt as a weapon, shifting the burden of his actions onto my shoulders, begging me to rescue his mother from the consequences of their shared greed.
I picked up my drafting pen, opened the attached legal notice from his attorney, and wrote a single line across the bottom of the page:
"Claim denied. All remaining liquidated funds will be directed to the St. Paul Women's Legal Defense Fund as mandated by court order."
I folded the paper, slipped it back into the envelope, and handed it to Maya.
"Send this back to his attorney," I said softly.
"Are you okay, Nora?" Maya asked gently, watching my face.
May you like
I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window of my office, looking out at the Mississippi River flowing steadily beneath the bridges of St. Paul. The rain was tapping softly against the glass, washing away the dust of the city.
"I’ve never been better, Maya," I smiled. "Drop the letter in the mail, and then call Aris. Tell him I’ll meet him for dinner at seven."
