Page 132 of Killing Me Softly

Jack reached into his jeans pocket, pulling out a crumpled envelope. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before he spoke. “I really didn’t know what to do with this.”

Kenny felt Aaron still in his lap.

“It came via the station. I haven’t opened it and have no idea what’s inside. But I know where it came from. And I couldn’t risk putting this in the post.” He held Aaron’s gaze, then, slowly, he handed it over.

Aaron took it and Kenny pressed a kiss to his shoulder, eyes drifting to the stamp in the top corner.

Ashbridge Women’s Correctional Institute.

His breath stilled.

The cursive writing on the front stood out. The name, written with careful precision.Cain Howell, C/O DI Jack Bentley, Ryston Police.

For a long, heavy moment, Aaron just stared at it.

Then he turned it over in his hands.

Kenny could feel the tension in Aaron’s muscles, the weight of the past pressing against his spine, the war that had alwayswaged between who he wasbornto be and who he hadchosento become. Then, without a word, he flipped the envelope back over and tore it open.

Kenny read over his shoulder.

Cain (or Aaron if you prefer),

I’m still here. Thought you should know.

I imagine by now you’ve run far. I always said you were good at that. Like a stray dog that doesn’t know if it wants to be caught or left to roam. But even strays come back, eventually. You haven’t.

You won’t, will you?

I had thought you’d at least come see me. If not for love, then for closure. To look me in the eye and prove to yourself that you are better than me. Better than us.

But I suppose silence is its own message.

You were always my bright star. My only boy. My beautiful son. And yet, I see now, I have lost you. You were lost to me the moment I chose you. I just didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to admit that my love wasn’t real love. I know I’m different. I never wanted to be. And that’s why I did everything a mother was supposed to do. Didn’t I? For you, at least. I read all about how a mother should love their child and tell them. I did, didn’t I?

But I’ve been thinking lately, as the days stretch into years and the walls close in. About what makes us who we are. Blood, they say. Or the weight of hands upon us, shaping us before we ever know we’re being molded. I wonder, in the stillness of my nights, where exactly you began. Was it with me? Was it before me? Did you already belong to something else before I took you in my arms and decided you were mine?

I used to dream of you, you know. Even here. I dreamed you’d come back to me. That you’d finally understand. That theworld would reveal itself for what it is. A place where only the strong survive, where people like us are not made, but born.

But my dreams have changed.

Now, when I see you, you are always walking away.

I don’t call after you anymore.

I don’t think you would turn back even if I did.

And that’s for the best.

Perhaps, after all this time, I should finally stop waiting.

Enjoy your life, my darling boy. Whatever shape it takes.

And if you do think of me—let it be only as a shadow. Nothing more.

And for the record, just so you know, I had bets you wouldn’t turn out like us because I cherished you. And even though you won’t admit it, I was right.

Your mother, Róisín

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