EPILOGUE

THE GIFT

Three months later

“You got a package in the mail,” Mom says as she rushes out the front door. “It’s on the kitchen table.”

I do an about-face and return to the kitchen. On the table lies a package wrapped in thick, plain brown paper, my name in block letters. There’s no return address. I shiver, and it has nothing to do with the central air conditioning or the fact that I’m wearing a tank top and shorts.

Sitting at the kitchen table, I open the package and pull out a slab of something wrapped in aluminum foil. I peel away the foil to reveal stacks of cash tightly bound by duct tape. When I get over the initial shock, I can say with certainty the money amounts to fifty thousand dollars. I put it aside and notice a plain white envelope at the bottom of the box.

I open the envelope. Inside is a postcard. On the front is a generic image, a country road surrounded by lush green vegetation. The back reads:

“Forgiveness is a virtue of the brave.”

—Indira Gandhi

You’re fearless.

Goosebumps appear all over my arms. I hope Trevor’s okay, wherever he is, and he gets help for his gambling addiction. Returning the money he extorted from me is a first step toward rebuilding his life.

My cell phone rings. It’s Ty calling.

“Cooper, are you all packed? I have a feeling we’ll need multiple cars to transport all your stuff to campus.”

“Yeah. I’m mostly done with packing.”

“Are you okay? Don’t tell me you’re fine. I can feel that you’re not.”

“I’m okay, Ty. Just thinking about someone I once knew.”

“The past can be a dangerous place to visit, Cooper.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What was the note that came with my birthday gift all about? You wrote Happy Birthday, princess.”

“You know what it means, Cooper. I don’t need to explain it to you.”

After I hang up, I want to mull over his words, but that will have to wait. Ty insisted that I shouldn’t pay him back the money, that it was a gift. Turns out he was right. I grab my purse and head out the front door.

The scorching summer heat beats down on me, but I don’t mind. I hop in my car and head toward the Healing Hearts Foundation, a rape crisis center on Worcester Road in Framingham. I want to put a smile on their faces today with a fifty-thousand-dollar donation in memory of Sidney Bailey Shepard. I know exactly what she would say. She would tell me I’m a Ms. Goody-Goody who can’t help herself. And for the first time, she wouldn’t call me a hypocrite.