I know you don’t feel ready to make a decision yet, but like I said at lunch, you’re showing. Pretty soon both Milo and Bill will know that you’re pregnant, and I’m afraid that would be very bad for you. You need to decide right away.

The offer always stands.

B

The letters stopped then, for about six months. When Brandi commenced writing again, she was writing to a shattered version of my mom. Stroking her from miles away, telling her everything would be okay, telling her that she did the right thing for her beautiful daughter, Peyton, even if it didn’t seem like it just now.

Warning her to stay strong and stay far away from Bill Hollis.

Surely Mom had learned her lesson. Surely she understood that messing with Bill Hollis was something that could ruin your life. She’d had to give up a child, for God’s sake. She knew that he was dangerous.

The letters continued. Peyton had smiled for the first time. She was saying mama. She crawled. She walked. She loved the birthday gifts Mom sent. And then a curious one.

Dear Carrie,

I can’t believe the news. He married Vanessa? Who does that? She is so crazy, I can’t believe even he would fall for it. Does he know about the little girl she left behind with her ex-husband? Probably not. God help that child. If it isn’t demon possessed, I would be shocked.

I would have laughed if it hadn’t been so prophetic. Luna wasn’t demon possessed, but she was about as close as someone could be.

The letter went on to talk about Peyton and referenced an included photo that I didn’t see in the envelope. Mom must have taken it out and kept it somewhere. Hidden it from Dad. Only Dad had all these letters, so nothing was hidden. Or maybe he didn’t find them until after she died. Either way, the question remained: Why did he keep them?

The last letter in the pile wasn’t from Brandi. And it wasn’t addressed to Mom, either. It had come to Dad. And had no return address.

But as soon as I pulled it out of the envelope, the slanted words lit up, not in their usual colors, but in a sunset orange with brown spots. A color memory. Africa. Kenya, to be specific. I went cold as I was taken back to the day in Bill Hollis’s office, when I found his hollow globe, a split across Kenya, stuffed with handwritten star ratings of his conquests. Notes. And invoices for abortions.

I would recognize Bill Hollis’s handwriting anywhere.

And he had written to Dad, a month before Brandi’s first letter to Mom.

Dear Mr. Kill,