father square in the eye. “There’s nothing to get to the bottom of, Dad. I was still living at home after Ian’s sentencing, so you know as well as I do that I returned his letters, unopened. All of them. And after I wrote ‘leave me alone’ across the back of that last envelope, you mailed it. And the letters stopped coming.”
Her grandmother was stuffing her husband’s gifts into a plastic bag. “It’s late. We should all be getting home.”
Her actions and tone reminded the family that she’d always detested family discord, and one by one, they stood and made their way into the foyer. Amid a flurry of uncomfortable hugs, they complimented Maleah’s dinner and thanked her for having them over.
Her mom hesitated. “You sure you don’t want help with the dishes, honey?”
“Thanks, Mom, but I’ll be fine.”
Arm in arm, her grandparents led the way to the semicircular drive.
“Looks like snow,” Frank said, pulling up his collar.
Maleah wished for summer temperatures, so Gramps could enjoy balmy breezes without needing to bundle up. The cancer that had nearly killed him refused to loosen its grip. But at least the family had remission to be thankful for.
Maleah stood on her bungalow’s covered porch, shoulders hunched into the wind as the family started up their cars, waving as they drove away. She loved them dearly, even at their annoying worst. Sometimes, though, it was difficult trying to protect them from bad news—like Ian’s return from prison years ago—to ensure nothing would upset them.
After bolting the door, she leaned against it and exhaled a relieved breath.
Reminding herself that self-pity never got anyone anywhere, she walked purposefully into the living room. There, Maleah collected cake plates and flatware, and after loading them into the dishwasher, started clearing the dining room table. Halfway through the job, she noticed the corner of the photograph protruding from the buffet’s silverware drawer.
She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had mentioned Ian or her involvement with him. Now thanks to Eliot’s mistrustful nature, the entire family would start watching her every move...again.
“Thanks a bunch, big brother, for opening Pandora’s box.”
A rush of memories rained down on her as she removed the picture...
When he’d called that night, Ian’s trembling voice described how his mother and new husband were expecting a baby. Hurt, confused and angry, he’d pleaded with Maleah to meet him. “I just need to talk it out. I promise not to keep you out late.” She’d wanted to comfort him, but homework, chores and three generations of disapproving Turner cops prevented it. Her refusal fueled his fury, and he’d hung up without saying goodbye. Months passed before she saw him again, slump-shouldered and chained to the defense table like a rabid dog.
Now, staring at his likeness, Maleah wondered for the thousandth time: If she had met him that night, would Ian have made a different choice?
“Enough!” She slammed the frame onto the table. “You destroyed your life, Ian Sylvestry, not me!”
Glittering shards of glass crisscrossed his once-carefree face, and that was fine with her.
“HEY, BOSS, WHAT should I do with this?”
Ian inspected the document in his assistant manager’s hands. “I suppose we oughta frame it, hang it near the registration counter.”
“Si.” Sergio shifted his weight to his good leg. “Good place for patrons to see they are dining in A-plus restaurante.”
Terri, Sur les Quais’s hostess, peered over Sergio’s shoulder.
“Oh wow, Ian. That’s so fantastic! I’ll bet I can find a frame downstairs in the storeroom...”
“Think you can find a good place to hang it once it’s behind glass, too?”
“Probably...” She started for the stairs, turning to add, “But I’ll check with you before I drive a nail into the wall.”
Such a timid little thing. “No need for that. I’m sure any spot you choose will be fine.”
She gave that a moment’s thought. “Okay then, if you’re sure.”
As she hurried down the stairs, he pictured the abusive husband who’d made her afraid of her own shadow. He’d tangled with plenty of bullies at Lincoln, and quickly figured out that defending himself would only tack extra years onto his sentence. It had taken time and careful planning, but he’d found ways to end the harassment...and earn the grudging respect of fellow inmates.
And the Turners called me a thug. Unlike his parents, Ian believed in marriage, in sticking it out when times got tough. But in his opinion, Terri and her boy would have been better off if Steve had fulfilled his numerous threats of leaving. He’d done nothing to hide his disappointment at having a special needs son, not even from Avery. Despite it all, Avery seemed as determined to overcome the limitations of his disorder as his mother was to keep him enrolled at the Washburne-Avery Institute. A lot to admire in those two—the mother in particular, who was partially deaf. If only Terri believed in herself as much as Ian did.
Alone in his office, Ian took a knee and rotated the dial on the safe, and as he slid the big checkbook from the bottom shelf, an envelope fluttered to the floor. He recognized it instantly as the last letter he’d sent Maleah from Lincoln. Oh, he’d written others after that one came back. Dozens. A hundred, maybe.
But he hadn’t mailed them.
He picked the letter up and, without reading the message scrawled across the envelope’s back, buried it under last year’s tax return, the titles to his pickup and Harley and his release papers.
“You in there, Ian?”
“C’mon in, Aunt Gladys.”
He sat behind his desk and folded both hands on the checkbook.
“I can’t believe you’re still doing things the old-fashioned way. Surely you know how much time you’d save, banking online.”
“I served time with guys who could hack an account like that.” He snapped his fingers. “I don’t trust the internet. Last thing we need now that we’re in the black is identity theft.”
“That’s what firewalls are for, silly man. Why, I’ve been doing my banking online for years, and I haven’t had a smidge of trouble.”
He owed Gladys a lot. Everything, in fact. Gratitude inspired him to devise ways to divert her when she got into one of her “I know best” moods.
Striking a Zen pose, he said, “I enjoy doing things the old-fashioned way. It calms me.”
Gladys sat back and tilted her head.
“What.”
“You look...weird.”
She’d
