Page 7 of Pen Pal

Dear Lorenzo,

I read your letter. Twice. I wasn't sure how to respond at first. I could tell you that self-help isn't about sitting in a circle and crying about the past, but I think you already know that. You wouldn't have filled out the worksheet if you didn't think, even for a second, that change was possible. That maybe—just maybe—you're more than the things you've done. And I believe that, Lorenzo. I believeyou are more.

You said regret is just an anchor men like you drag behind them. Maybe you're right. But what if regret isn't supposed to weigh you down? What if it's meant to remind you of what you can still do differently?

You've lived your life believing that violence is the only way to get justice, that the system is broken, and that no one is looking out for people like you. But if two wrongs made a right, wouldn't the world be a much darker place? Wouldn't it mean there's no point in trying to fix anything at all?

I know the justice system isn't perfect. But it exists because revenge is just pain, looking for somewhere else to land. And you—whether you see it or not—are carrying too much of it. You don't have to hold the weight of the world on your shoulders, Lorenzo. I applaud you for opening up to me. I know it wasn't easy. It's never easy to look at yourself and wonder if you could have been someone different.

But you can still choose what kind of man you want to be now. And whether you believe it or not, I think that choice is still yours. I'm here. I'll keep writing.

Sincerely,

Amara Branson

I read over his letter again, touched by how personal it was. Hesitation crept in, alarm bellswarning me about how dangerous killers were. I could be starting something that I couldn't walk away from.

But I had to take the risk. I'd be damned if another person got locked up forever when I could've saved him.

I addressed the envelope and decided to bring it straight to the mailbox on the corner of my street. I changed my heels for sneakers and walked quickly as rain began pouring from the clouds.

Mark's car was in the driveway. My heart sank. Would he be worried about me and wonder where I went?

I opened the door, hurrying inside as I wiped the raindrops from my bare arms. I scowled as I realized my blouse was soaked.

"Where have you been?" Mark demanded, sitting at the kitchen table. "How long were you out?"

"I just popped out for a few minutes to mail a letter for work," I panted, trying to catch my breath from the quick jog I took. "I didn't think you'd be home so soon."

His expression was neutral, watching and waiting. Confused, I removed my sneakers and stepped closer. His eyes trailed over my body, probably noticing that I was still in my work clothes.

I looked at the table in front of him, and I froze. He fisted Enzo's letter, and then I noticed the glint of anger in his eyes.

Seeing that I noticed the letter, he sneered, lifting the letter as he read it out loud. "Dear Amara," he started mockingly.

I winced as he read the entirety of it, heat burning my cheeks.

"Look at how this degenerate clings to you," he scoffed. "You really think a murderer can change? That he needs you?"

My brows furrowed. "You knew when you married me that I would be a lawyer. I have to deal with all kinds of people, Mark. That's the job."

"I didn't know you'd work with fucking killers, Amara," he snapped. "I bet he writes all his lawyer's interns love letters. You're not special."

"It's not a love letter," I placated. "If I can help rehabilitate offenders—"

"But you're not a fucking social worker or psychologist, are you, Amara?" he laughed. "You're just his lawyer's intern. You're there to learn from your boss, not cure his clients."

I cringed. I didn't know what to say to that. Maybe he was right, but I couldn't just sit back andlet people spiral into a life behind bars when I knew I could do something about it.

Mark lifted a lighter, pressing the flame against the letter as it lit up, burning before my eyes.

"What the fuck, Mark?" I exclaimed. "That was so unnecessary!"

He stood, dropping the letter in the sink as he rushed me. I backed away until I hit a wall, and he grabbed my wrist, his hold bruising.

"You belong to me, Amara. Did you forget that?" he yelled, his breath reeking of alcohol.

I shook my head.

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