Monique was silent for a long time. Outside, the last of the dusk drained from the sky, and the streetlights on Laurel Court came on one by one, pale and uncertain. Ava's breathing slowed against her mother's side. Eventually Monique lifted her head.
"He left it for you," she said. "Whoever wrote it. Marcus was only the messenger who never delivered the message. I don't have the right to keep it from you anymore. Not after tonight." She closed her eyes. "Open it, Thomas. Please. Just — stay. Don't take it next door and read it alone. I need to know what my husband was carrying all those years."
Thomas nodded.
His hands were steady when he slid his thumb beneath the flap. The seal gave with a soft, dry sound, like a leaf breaking. Inside was a single sheaf of pages, folded once, written on both sides in that same unmistakable hand — looping, slightly old-fashioned, the ink faded at the edges to the color of a bruise.
He unfolded the pages.
He began to read aloud, because somehow reading silently felt like a theft from the woman and the child in the room.
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Thomas,