The letter from Ethan arrives on a Tuesday.
I recognize the prison return address immediately. Federal Correctional Institution, Ray Brook. Where he's serving his fifteen-year sentence with possibility of parole in eight.
Harper's with me when I open it. We're at my office, going over foundation paperwork, when the mail arrives.
"You don't have to read it," she says, eyeing the envelope like it might contain anthrax.
"I know." But I'm already opening it. "I need to see what he has to say."
The handwriting is different. Smaller, more careful. Prison changes people, I guess. Even their penmanship.
Violet,
I don't expect you to respond to this. Don't expect forgiveness or even acknowledgment. But my therapist here says I need to take full accountability for what I did without expecting
