Chapter 3: What the Letter Actually Said
Caleb read the letter twice.
The first time, his eyes moved too fast.
He caught words but not meaning.
*Tried.
Reached.
Know.*
The second time, he made himself slow down.
*Caleb.
If you're reading this, then someone finally let you.
I tried to reach you.
I tried more than once.
I need you to know that.*
*I found out I was pregnant two months after you left for the Chicago posting.
I called your office four times.
The woman who answered said you had asked not to be contacted by me.
I didn't believe her at first.
I called again.
She said the same thing.*
*I wrote to your home address.
The letters came back unopened.*
*I don't know what she told you about me.
I don't know what you believe.
But I am not the person who disappeared.
I want you to know that before anything else.*
*Her name is Sadie.
She has your eyes.
I hope you get to see that for yourself someday.*
*— Mara*
Caleb set the page down on the bed.
Sadie had fallen asleep against the headboard, one hand still resting on the stuffed rabbit.
She hadn't let go of it even in sleep.
He looked at her eyes.
He sat there for a long time without moving.
Then he picked up his phone and called the one person who had an answer to give him.
It rang four times.
Then: "Caleb.
It's late, sweetheart.
Is everything alright?"
Her voice was warm.
It had always been warm.
That was the thing about Diane — she had a warmth that made you feel held, made you feel like someone was looking out for you, made you stop asking questions you should have asked years ago.
"I need you to come over," he said.
A pause.
Brief, but there.
"Tonight?
It's nearly midnight."
"Yes.
Tonight."
Another pause.
Longer.
"Is this about the little girl?"
He noticed she didn't say *Sadie*.
She said *the little girl*, as if she had no name, as if she were a stranger who had wandered in from somewhere.
"Just come," he said.
"Please."
He hung up before she could offer another reason not to.
While he waited, he read the letter a third time.
Then he opened the photograph of Mara.
She was younger in it than he remembered her — early twenties, standing somewhere outdoors, squinting slightly against the sun.
She was smiling, but it was the kind of smile that had something careful behind it, like she was deciding how much of herself to give the camera.
He turned the photograph over.
On the back, in handwriting he didn't recognize — smaller and neater than Mara's — were four words.
*She tried.
She really tried.*
He was still holding the photograph when he heard Diane's car pull into the driveway.
He didn't go to the door.
He waited.
She let herself in with the key he had given her three years ago, when he'd had a minor surgery and she had offered to check on him.
He had never asked for the key back.
It had not seemed important.
It seemed important now.
She appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, still in her coat, silver ring catching the light.
She looked at the letter in his hand.
Her expression didn't change.
That was the moment he understood.
Not when she walked in.
Not when she saw the letter.
The moment he understood was when her expression didn't change.
"Sit down, Diane," he said.
She stayed in the doorway.
May you like
"Caleb, whatever you think you've found—"
"Sit down."
