As soon as Autumn closed her journal, the intercom in her apartment buzzed. Thanks to Roland’s complaints, the landlord had fixed it.
It was Claire, most likely.
She was always stopping by unannounced. Even before Autumn woke up in the hospital, she would swing by without calling or texting, a reality that used to drive Seth crazy. “Hasn’t she ever heard of something called advance notice?”
Autumn would laugh, because back then, Claire wasn’t stopping by to check up on her, so it wasn’t nearly as irritating. Back then, Autumn had found her impromptu visits as endearing as they were inconvenient. Back then, Claire had been the one seeking advice and Autumn had been the one doling it out.
She uncurled herself from the armchair in her living room to go push the button on the intercom. “Hello?”
“Hey.” The deep voice that came through the speaker did not belong to Claire. “It’s Paul.”
Paul Elliott? What in the world was he doing here?
“Do you mind if I come up?”
Come up? Paul Elliott wanted to come up?
Autumn glanced around her home like she might find Reese hiding beneath the end table. Only Reese was nowhere to be found. It was just the notebook on the armchair and the new jigsaw puzzle on the coffee table, along with a cup of lukewarm cinnamon spice tea, and her, wearing pajama bottoms and slippers. At five o’clock at night, which might not be the worst thing if she hadn’t been wearing them all day—one of the many benefits of being a virtual assistant. It might not pay the bills as well as a corporate position at Exelon, but she could look like a bum and her boss would be none the wiser.
The intercom crackled. “Hello?”
“Oh, sorry. Come on up.”
She pushed the button to let him in and immediately regretted it. She ran her fingers through her hair, throwing it up in a messy bun, then rushed into her room where she kicked off her pajama bottoms and hurriedly stepped into a pair of jeans, trying to figure out why in the world he’d come here. Could it be the tribute? Had he changed his mind?
A knock sounded on her door.
It was him.
When she answered, he looked slightly uncomfortable, but not nearly as disheveled as last time. His hair was wind-tossed but obviously washed and combed at some point earlier in the day. He wore pressed slacks and a nice jacket unzipped over a button-down shirt. Here was a man who lived out in the world and worked out in the world and interacted with actual people out in the world.
“I’m sorry for dropping by unannounced like this,” he said. “I would’ve called, but I don’t have your number.”
“It’s okay.”
He removed his hand from his pocket and scratched the back of his neck. “I was wondering if I could read the letters.”
The request came so unexpectedly that Autumn had to replay it. He wanted to read the letters? Reese’s letters? “But they were written to me,” she said, more to herself than to him.
“I know.”
“So…?”
“I’m her father.”
Anger pounced, as swiftly and unexpectedly as Paul’s visit. It grabbed her by the throat and squeezed. He was right. He was her father, which meant he should care. He should care that Reese wanted to remember her mother. He should care enough to listen to her idea about a tribute. Instead, his fatherhood gave him license to silence her at the dinner table and intrude upon her privacy.
“Normally I wouldn’t ask. I understand confidentiality. It’s a big part of my job. But Reese’s behavior has been concerning lately. I’d really like to know what’s going on inside her head.”
The words seemed to cause him physical pain.
And just like that, Autumn’s anger washed away. It released her as quickly as it had grabbed on, leaving her limp and slightly cold. This was the man who had raced to the hospital expecting to find his wife, and got her instead. The man who had to sit his children down and tell them that their mother wouldn’t be coming home. The whole reason he was concerned right now was steeped in Autumn’s survival.
“I’ll go get them.”
His shoulders sagged with relief. She hadn’t noticed how stiff they’d been until all the tension melted away. “Thank you.”
Smiling weakly, she walked down the short hallway, opened the door to the closet, pulled down the binder from the top shelf. With a noticeable tremble in her fingers, she removed the letters. Slowly. Painfully. It felt like a betrayal. Reese had meant these for her, and now, she was handing them over to him. She had to remind herself that Reese was a minor and Paul was a concerned father.
She was doing the right thing.
But then he folded the stack in half and tucked it inside his coat pocket, and Autumn started to panic. He wasn’t just going to read them; he was going to take them.
“Thank you,” he said once more. “I really appreciate it.”
And with that, Paul Elliott started walking away.
Autumn lurched forward in the way someone would when something very precious, very valuable, was being carted away with little-to-no notice. “Are you going to give them back?”
He stopped. Turned.
Her cheeks flooded with warmth. She shouldn’t care this deeply about a stack of letters written by a kid. And yet those letters were as valuable to her as the obituaries. Those letters kept her company at night, while the ghosts stood sentry.