I pick up the locker, last piece of my old life, and stagger with it out to the back yard. Night’s cold. I should put on a sweatshirt. Something other than my usual ugly white tee. I drink more Maker’s Mark instead. That’ll warm you to your toes, yes sirree, Bob.

I crack open the locker. It’s filled with notes. I don’t know why Jerry didn’t toss them. My best guess is that Rachel grabbed the box, maybe that very afternoon. She carried it away. She saved it for me.

And somehow, some way, one afternoon while I was out working at Vito’s garage, she left it on the front step of my apartment for me. I came home, and boom, there it was. No packaging. No note. Not even a follow-up phone call. I guess it had to be her, right, because who else would do such a thing? And it made me consider that she would be seventeen now, old enough to drive, fearless enough to brave the trip from Portland, Maine, into the big city of Boston.

Maybe she’d discovered my address on the checks I sent to Jerry. Maybe once she realized where I lived, she had to pay me a visit. See how I was doing.

Did she read the letters? Did it help her understand why I did what I did?

I went through the contents often the first few weeks. Best I could tell, every single letter I ever wrote was there, including the rough drafts of bad poetry, the get-well card I made when she had mono, the bits of verse I tried to write when really I oughtta stick to tuning engines. I searched for responses she might have scribbled in the margins, maybe hints of lipstick, a greasy print from the palm of her hand.

One night, in a fit of inspiration, I sprayed the letters with lemon juice, because I’d just watched a MythBusters episode where they used citric acid to uncover disappearing ink. Nothing.

So I waited for her to return, day after day after day. Because she knew where I lived, and God, I hoped, I prayed to see her again. Just to have five minutes to tell her something, to tell her everything. Just to … see her.

The waiting game has proved to be a lot like the searching-for-scribbles-in-the-margin game. All these months later, I got nothing to show for it.

And I wonder now, as I wondered every single fucking night in prison, did she ever love me at all?

I toss back another hit of Maker’s Mark, and then, before the burn can leave my throat, I flick the match and watch the world’s most expensive collection of love letters start to burn. I sprinkle them with whiskey for good measure, and the fire roars its approval.

Except, at the last moment, I can’t do it. I just can’t do it.