I think back to the day that started it all, and how all I could give Fitz was what he could see. Shutting my eyes, I remember lifting my shirt off in my Atlanta apartment, spinning to give him my back. I didn’t have to say much. What I showed him told him everything he needed to know.

In the box is the rest of it.

I blow out a heavy breath. “I… It’s really hard to talk about. So I can’t tell you. But I can show you.”

* * *

My bedroom door, which I shut to give Fitz space and privacy, opens only thirty minutes later. That’s all it takes for Fitz to read everything, which seems surprising considering I printed the articles about Sarah and Horizons and her initial lawsuit filing, and there are pages of my letters—if you could call them that—written out neatly in order. Between the few that were on napkins, or written with dry pens, most of the originals were almost illegible, but I placed them in small Ziplock bags so Abby’s lawyer would have everything.

Fitz holds up one of the bags and begins to read the mess of my words. “Dear Fitzy, Today is day 229. In five days, I’ll be free. I haven’t been writing because there’s nothing else I can tell you now. I decided after Sarah left, that I’d just take it day by day to get out of here. Everything I told you that happened still happens. And everything that didn’t happen before”—he grimaces—“happened after. Because with Sarah gone, I have no one. No one to talk to. No one to dream about riding with. No one to protect and be protected by.”

I cover my face with my hands as I remember the male orderly returning to the bathroom, the way he leaned against the sink as he watched me shower. It happened another six times before my last day.

Fitz continues, “I’ve never felt so alone. But the scarier thing is? I’m not sure I even care. I hate saying that. I know you, I know Honey, would be so upset. Please forgive me for not fighting back and getting out of here sooner. I’m too scared. I’m too tired. I’m too far gone to come back to who I was. And even though I don’t write, I do think. A lot. I think I care about you too much to ever send you these. I think I couldn’t stand to see you—so good—painted by something so bad.” His voice cracks. “Me.”

I start sobbing, and Fitz drops the letter onto the table and rushes to my side, dropping onto his knees in front of the couch. He pulls my hands away from my face, kissing them. “You aren’t bad, Parker. What they did to you? Bad doesn’t begin to describe it.”