The paper sack from Bo remained on the nightstand, the same place it had been sitting since Quinn walked into the house and put it there an hour earlier. Uptight about the sack’s contents, she chose to wait until her curiosity got the best of her. At the moment, that same curiosity had led her in another direction.
Quinn leaned against the headboard behind the bed, the pads of her pallid fingers running across the sealed envelope she’d received from Harvey McCallister. She’d stared at the envelope for several minutes now while listening to the hypnotic tick of the minute hand on the clock on the wall. Moments blew past, and she let them. She had something Evie didn’t. A future, a chance at creating more.
The death letter, as she preferred to think of it, shouldn’t have been difficult to open, but receiving correspondence from Evie postmortem evoked a peculiar uneasiness she hadn’t been able to shake all day. It was as if Evie was still there, alive, in front of her. Warm to the touch.
Quinn took a deep breath in, ran the tip of her pinkie finger beneath the creased opening in the upper right corner of the envelope. She lifted up, breaking the seal. With both eyes shut, she reached a hand in, surprised when she pulled out not one letter, but two. The first addressed to her—the second to Jacob. She put the one to Jacob aside and unfolded the one addressed to her.
Quinn,
I remember the first time I saw you, on your knees at the park with your disheveled hair and matching ribbons, your eyes stained with tears, face like a timid cat, afraid of everyone and everything. We were so different. Opposites. I never thought we’d end up the kind of friends we are today. I can see now why I befriended you that day—why becoming friends was so appealing to me. Looking into your big, round doe eyes was like looking into your soul. I saw all of the qualities I lacked, and all I could think about was if I hung around you long enough, maybe I’d get lucky and a part of you would rub off on me. And you know something, I believe it did. Because of you, I’m the woman I am today. A softer, gentler person, just like you. Well ... part of the time anyway. I have to allow myself the slight indulgence of dishing out a bit of whoop ass from time to time, right?
You’re probably sitting there right now shaking your head, still having a hard time believing I actually took the time to write this letter. Well, I did. And you have Harold to thank for it. I went in to discuss the future of my business, and somehow it turned into all of this—a will, a guardianship plan—the whole kitten caboodle (or is it kit and caboodle ... hell if I know!).
It feels funny writing this letter—a letter you’ll only read if I’m dead. It feels like I’m planning my own funeral, like I’m preparing to die. Death. I can’t even imagine it at our age. Can you? Where do we go when we’re nothing but a steaming pile of ash? What do we do? Linger around, invisible, feeling jealous as we watch people devour food we’ll never again be able to eat? Sounds like an eternal life of damnation, if you ask me.
Odds are you’ll never even see this letter, but just in case you do, there are a few things I want you to know. For starters, I’m leaving you my business. Ha! How do you like that for an after-death shocker? I know, I know. Your gardening thumb is more black than green, but you’re smart, and you’ll make sure what I worked so hard to create lives on without me. Truth is, you’re the only one who will.
Now that Roman and I are getting a divorce, there’s not much chance we’ll both kick the bucket at the same time and you’ll become Jacob’s legal guardian, right? Still, Roman will be lost. He’ll need your help. And my son will need a strong woman to guide him. He has Ruby, but she won’t be around forever. Look in on Roman every once in a while. We may be apart, but I’ll always love him, just like you’ll always love Bo. And before you roll your eyes into oblivion, be honest with yourself. You know I’m right. You say you love Marcus, you say you’re happy, but you’re not. I didn’t notice it as much before Isaiah died, but now, with him gone, you’re not the same. And Isaiah isn’t the only one to blame. It’s like you long for a life you don’t believe you can ever get back. I’ve thought about talking to you about it, and soon enough I will, but right now I’m trying to give you the opportunity to figure things out in your own time.
I guess that about sums it up. And now I’m off to deliver a letter you’ll probably never receive. So to wrap things up, I just want to say one last thing. I love you. You’re a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for. Okay, so that’s two things. Suppose I’ll be as defiant in death as I was in life.
All my love, Evie
Quinn returned the letter to the envelope and managed a slight smile. She’d spent the day focusing on the assumption that reading Evie’s letter would only increase her sadness. But there was a level of comfort in Evie’s words, a reminder that, although she was gone, Evie had lived her life, her way, never compromising.
She set the letter to the side, tugged on the metal pull dangling from the lamp, and sat in darkness for a moment before tugging the light back on again. There was one more obstacle to get through before the day was done—one last thing to accomplish if she expected to get any sleep. Open the sack. She reached for it. Clutching it in both hands, it felt weightless, like an inflated bag of air. She removed the staple at the top, pulled it free, then unfolded the rolls until she reached the opening.
She took a deep breath in and looked inside.
There, at the bottom, was a single, familiar piece of shiny silver.
The last time she’d seen it, it had been dangling from Evie’s neck.