Chapter Forty-One

And now you know the truth, Shelby. That’s how your story began. The rest of it, everything that followed, belonged to you and Tom, not to me. Life passes so quickly, doesn’t it? Yours did. Mine did, too.

I spent twenty years in prison for the murders of my ex-husband and my baby daughter. Don’t feel bad for me about that. I did terrible things, and regardless of what had been done to me, I had no illusions that I should have escaped punishment. I also won’t give you any illusions that it was anything but hard. For months, I did nothing but cry every day, drowning myself in self-pity. For months after that, I became angry and combative with the guards and the other prisoners, and none of that went well for me. And then more months—years—passed in a dreary endlessness of boredom and routines, every day exactly like every other to the point of numbing my brain into a kind of dead despair. The only things that would break up the routine were not the things you wanted. Fights. Bullies. Threats. Twice, there were riots. When that happens, you find yourself craving boredom again.

I spent most of my time alone, but people came to see me from Black Wolf County. They had to drive a couple of hours to get to the state facility where I was housed, but many of them made the trip. Sandra saw me almost every month in the early years, until she moved to the Florida Keys to live on a yacht. After the revelations about Brink, Kip, and Racer came out, the mine settled the lawsuit and paid her and the other women several million dollars. That’s right. Millions. Sandra stuck it out in the cold for a while, but then she decided that she’d had enough of winters. I still get postcards from her. It looks nice down there.

Ben Malloy visited whenever he was home to see his mother. We talked a lot about the Ursulina. I never admitted to him what had happened when I was ten years old, but he remained convinced that I was one of the chosen few who’d seen the beast. I also think—I don’t know, it was just a glint in his eyes—but I think he was the only person who genuinely suspected that I was the Ursulina. That I’d been the one to commit the murders. Not as a woman, mind you, but as the monster I became. He never said it out loud, but I think he would have loved to do a documentary about me.

Norm was my lawyer, so he came to see me, too. Not that there was really much law to be handled after I pled guilty. He reminded me regularly that we had attorney-client privilege between us and that I could tell him anything without fear that he would pass the information along. I knew what he was driving at. You see, Norm never believed that I had harmed you, Shelby. Not for one little minute. He was sure I’d figured out a way to set you free; he just didn’t know how or who’d taken you in. He wanted to help, but I wasn’t going to take that risk. After a while, he realized that I was determined to leave things the way they were.

Will accompanied Norm to the jail a few times, but just as I’d expected, Will left Black Wolf County after college and moved to New York. He only made occasional visits home after that. He became a lawyer like his father and signed on as counsel for a human rights organization. I was proud of him, and I’ve written to tell him that more than once.

There was only one person who didn’t visit me, one man from my hometown that I really missed. Darrell never came. Not once. His daughters all did, and they apologized on his behalf, but I just don’t think he was able to face me. I told you, Darrell saw life and people as black and white, evil and good. Somehow this girl who’d been like a daughter to him had proved to be both, and he simply couldn’t deal with it.

Two years after I went inside, Darrell’s wife passed away of cancer. I wrote him a long note of condolence, but he never replied.

And so it went for me.

Twenty years is a long time. You don’t dare think about the end, because thinking about it only makes it seem farther away. Instead, you live each day, expecting nothing. Eventually, you give up obsessing about what you can’t have and resign yourself to the few things you can have. I decided that I still had a life, even behind bars. I read hundreds of books. I taught myself Spanish. I got a four-year degree in English Literature and then a master’s degree. And I wrote you letters, Shelby. Letter after letter, pouring out my thoughts, hopes, and dreams for you. I never mailed them, of course, but I wrote several times a week throughout those twenty years. If you’d like to see them, I still have them.

Tom wrote to me, too. He had to use a kind of code, of course, because there is no privacy for prisoners. He never mentioned your name; he simply told me about his daughter. It was like keeping you in my life. I was so grateful to him for that. He shared all your landmarks, all your special occasions. Every now and then, he dared to send a photo, too, and you grew up just the way I thought you would.

You looked just like me.

*

At the age of forty-seven, I rejoined the world and had to figure out how to live in it again.

The first thing I did was take a bus to Mittel County. You were twenty years old then, already working with Tom in the sheriff’s office. I saw Tom in secret on that trip, and he pleaded with me, begged me, to introduce myself to you, but I didn’t think it was safe. There were too many ways for my presence to open up Pandora’s box, even after twenty years, and I wasn’t going to risk upending the life you had. Or his.

But I can remember sitting in a booth at a restaurant called the Nowhere Café, across the street from City Hall. You were in another booth with Tom, whose hair had gone prematurely silver, making him look even more handsome and distinguished, if that was possible. Yes, seeing him made me fall in love with him all over again, and I flatter myself that he still had feelings for me, too. He’d never married. His whole life, he told me, was you—and obviously, the feeling was mutual. I could see that in how the two of you looked at each other. You idolized him, Shelby. You would have done anything for him. That was as it should be.

Being free again, I had decisions to make. Tom said I should move to Mittel County and adopt a false name if necessary. He even hinted at the idea of our being together. I thought about it. Oh, yes, I thought about it. But there are some realities in life. I wouldn’t have been able to be so close to both of you day after day and still keep my secret. Sooner or later, it would have come out. I told myself that I was protecting the two of you, but I guess the truth is, I was also protecting myself.

I was scared, Shelby.

Scared of you. Scared of what you’d say to me, how you’d feel about me, if you knew who I was. I’ve said I would understand if you hated me, and I mean that. But I couldn’t bear to actually hear those words from your mouth. It was easier to keep you as a sweet little dream and not have to deal with the ugly reality of making amends for my past.

But I couldn’t move far away, either. I couldn’t simply leave you behind. So I moved to the little resort town of Martin’s Point on the far side of the county, and I got a job at an ice cream shop. My claim to fame was suggesting a flavor called Ursulina Poop—chocolate-hazelnut ice cream swirled with fudge and studded with nuts and malted milk balls—which became their biggest seller. It was part-time seasonal work, but I still had some money in the bank, enough to live a frugal life in a little apartment. I was an independent soul growing up, and I still am. I didn’t really need people, and after years behind bars, I found it hard to be around others for any length of time. I spent my days quietly. I had the library, and I had the national forest.

Yes, I still hiked whenever I could.

I still listened.

But in all these years, I’ve never heard it again. Hufffffff.

Every now and then, I found an update about you, a bit of news to make my heart sing. I saw you in the newspaper from time to time. A couple of times, you even came into the ice cream shop, but I deliberately stayed in the back and didn’t talk to you. You had your life, Shelby, and you didn’t need me in it. I simply watched you quietly and enjoyed what I saw. You looked beautiful and strong. A little lonely like me, maybe, but no one has a perfect life. Still, you looked happy.

That was all I needed to know.

*

It was fifteen years later when I saw the news about you becoming sheriff of Mittel County. I couldn’t have been prouder.

But not even another year after that, my heart broke when I read in the paper that Tom had passed away. I remembered his fears from years earlier that he would suffer early dementia, the way his parents had, and tragically, those fears were realized. He was only sixty-six, just four years older than I was. I’d lost the love of my life.

I couldn’t stay away from his funeral. I had to be there. I drove to the little church on that Saturday afternoon, but I had to struggle to find a seat, because the church was packed with mourners and friends. People came from miles away. Everyone knew Tom. Everyone loved and respected him. And they felt that way about you, too, Shelby. I could see that. There were so many tears, so many people who stood up and talked about what Tom had done for them, what Tom had meant to them.

The eulogy you gave him made me sob, Shelby. You talked about him finding you on his doorstep. You talked about the life he’d given you. You cried, smiled, laughed, and joked. You stood up there with my dark hair and my dark eyes, and you got through that awful day in a way that would have made Tom proud. You were just what I’d always wanted you to be. Fearless.

I wished I had the courage myself to go up to you and tell you my story. To tell you our story. To explain, to help you understand, to answer the questions you had. I already knew what I would say when it came to that, when we were finally together, because I’d had those first words in my head for years.

I know you’ll never forgive me for what I did.

But it was too late for ancient history.

So I waited until the very end, until everyone else was gone, and then I had to go to the front of the church and look at that wonderful man in his coffin, with his silver hair and a face that had a sweetness and grace even in death. I put a finger on my lips, and then I put that finger on his lips, and I whispered through my tears, “Thank you, Tom.”

And when I turned to go, there you were in front of me.

Shelby. My little baby, now thirty-five years old. The sheriff of this county in your crisp, pressed uniform. Courageous, lovely, even when you were heartsick with grief. You’d just lost your father, and I was the woman who’d given you away.

“Hello,” you said to me.

It was the first time my daughter had ever spoken to me, and I had to choke out my own reply. “Hello.”

“I’m Shelby. Tom’s child.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Have we met before? You look familiar to me.”

“No, I’m sure we haven’t. My name’s Rebecca. Rebecca Colder.”

“How did you know my father?”

I tried to figure out what to say. How do you say anything, when your heart is so full and so broken at the same time?

“A long time ago, he saved my life,” I said.

“How did he do that?”

I wanted to tell you the truth, Shelby, because the truth was simple. By saving you. But nothing about my life was simple.

“I was in trouble a long time ago, and he got me out of it,” I said.

“I’m glad.”

“He was a wonderful man.”

“Yes, he was.” Then you added, “I was very lucky to have him.”

“I’m sure he felt the same way about you,” I said, wishing I could reach out and take your hand. Hug you. Put my hands on your cheeks. Tell you about that day in the snow with Tom and the little Easter basket and the hundreds of letters to you that are still in a box under my bed.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I went on.

“Thank you.”

That really should have been all. That should have been the end. I wasn’t about to ask you or God for anything more. I’d already been blessed far more than I deserved in life. So I took a last glance at Tom’s peaceful face, I smiled into my daughter’s lovely dark eyes, and I walked away down the aisle of the church to live the rest of my life alone.

That was when you called after me, Shelby.

It was just the two of us in the church, and you called after me with a strange, hopeful certainty in your voice. I heard you walking down the aisle behind me, your steps getting faster as if you didn’t want me to leave. Then you said the one word I’d wanted to hear from your lips since I first held you in my arms.

“Mom?”