“Well … there’s no statute of limitations on murder. And everything we’ve done—and will do at the DMV—will be evidence of guilt. He was shot in the back and we disposed of the body and ran. If he is ever found, they’ll come looking for us, and now my parents have lied for us. Another crime. So we have to be careful.”

“For how long?”

“Forever, baby girl.”

*   *   *

Dear Matthew,

I’ve called the rehab facility every day this week. I pretend I’m your cousin. The answer is always the same: no change. It breaks a little more of my heart every time.

I know I can never send this letter and that even if I did, you couldn’t read it or wouldn’t understand the words. But I have to write to you, even if the words are lost. I told myself (and have been told repeatedly by others) that I need to move on with my new life. And I’m trying to do that. I am.

But you are inside of me, a part of me, maybe even the best part. I’m not talking only about our baby. I hear your voice in my head. You talk to me in my sleep so much I’ve gotten used to waking with tears on my cheeks.

I guess my mama was right about love. As screwed up as she is, she understands the durability and lunacy of it. You can’t make yourself fall in love, I suppose, and you can’t make yourself fall out of it.

I am trying to fit in down here. Trying hard. I mean, Susan Grant is trying to fit in. The streets are jammed with cars and the sidewalks are wall-to-wall people and pretty much no one looks at anyone else or says hello. You were right about the beauty, though. When I let myself see it, it’s there. I see it in Mount Rainier, which reminds me of Iliamna and can magically appear and disappear. Down here, it’s called The Mountain because really they only have the one. Not like home, where mountains form the exposed spine of our world.

My grandparents care about the weirdest things. How the table is set, what time we eat, how well I tuck the sheets into the bed, how tightly I braid my hair. My grandmother handed me tweezers the other day and told me to pluck my eyebrows.

But we have a nice little rental house not far from them and we can visit if we are careful. I think Mama is surprised to find that she likes to be with her parents. We have plenty to eat and new clothes and when we all sit around the dinner table, we try to knit our lives together, dropped stitches and all.

Maybe that’s what love is.

*   *   *

Dear Matthew,