At the post office, from her PO box, she pulls a letter with a return address: County Road EE, Greeley, Colorado. Ray’s scratchy handwriting, which she has not seen for more than a year now. Her heart skitter-scatters, just like his blue pen on white paper. She rips open the letter. Would like to come visit, would like to see you in person and apologize. Can certainly be in the presence of a police officer. She scans the phrases quickly. Legal. Earned time, automatic deductions, parole eligibility date. Paid my dues. Visit? If you allow. May I? She feels the volcano of anger rise from her stomach to her face. And a P.S. Rachel’s birthday was around now, wasn’t it? Can’t remember the exact date. Embarrassed that I can’t remember. I’m sure that’s hard on you. She throws the letter in the trash, thinks twice, picks it up. Throws it back again. What a bastard. Can’t even remember the birthday of his wife, of the woman he killed. February 16. February 16. February 16! Renny stands there, staring at the trash bin, trying to get the upper hand on her heart, which is racing now, racing.
