He reaches back, pulling an envelope from his pocket and holding it out to her. “Here.” He steps back. “I’ll be in the kitchen, whenever you’re done.
She carefully takes the envelope, moving out of the way as the EMTs crowd the space, Helena’s gurney locked into place as they prepare to leave. Walking down the driveway a bit, she sits down on the concrete drive and works the page out of the envelope.
Dear Kate,
I gave you rules because I was afraid. Don’t ever second-guess your ability. Don’t ever think of me in any way except as a pain. I have been terrible to you. Please forgive me. It came from a place of guilt and self-hatred. Please, in this final letter, allow me a few more moments of bossiness.
1. In the file cabinet in the utility room is my will. My attorney is my executor and his information is listed on the inside flap of the folder. Please give him a call. I’ll save you the drama of wondering at its contents. I’m leaving all of my assets to the victims of Simon Parks. I’m asking Charlotte Blanton to track them down based on the contents of video tapes that Mark is giving her. I am hoping, given her history in Wilmont, that she will recognize most of them.
2. Also in the utility room is a stack of unpublished manuscripts. They are works that I never felt comfortable enough to publish. Feel free to read through them and see what you think. You have always been honest with me about my writing. Please read them in the same critical manner. If you think that there are any quality pieces there, feel free to pitch them. If there is rewriting to be done, please ask Mark to co-write on those titles. I understand that this is more than your standard duties. Please let this letter act as authorization for my estate to pay you a forty percent commission on those titles. You are one of the few individuals that I trust to not let the economic benefits outweigh your judgment of the content.
3. As far as this novel, I have been editing and rewriting it as we have gone, so I believe that it is fairly polished in its current state. Please pitch it to Tricia Pridgen, and have any sales proceeds put into an escrow account for future victims that Charlotte may find.
I’m certain that I’m forgetting something. I’m also certain in your ability to make the best decisions on my behalf. Don’t hesitate if faced with a question. You know the answer, especially where I am concerned.
Thank you. I never said it enough, and it is too weak here. But it is sincere. Thank you for everything that you did for my writing and my career. Thank you for making me into one of the biggest names in our business. Thank you for your guidance and wisdom and for making it possible to spend so much of my life doing what I love. I appreciate you, and I never showed that enough.
With love,
Helena Ross
She reads the letter twice, then slowly leans back, laying back on the cement drive, looking up into the branches of the tree, fresh tears leaking out of her eyes.
I appreciate you, and I never showed that enough.
She chokes out a laugh. Damn Helena. Becoming a human in her final moments of life.
CHARLOTTE
The phone rings and she ignores it, her pen in motion, Janice Ross’s strained voice coming through the mini-recorder. She creates a new bullet point and grabs the police report, underlining the time of Simon Parks’ 911 call, his report of his daughter’s fainting, his inability to get her to wake up. She pauses the tape and stares at the page, her eyes darting across the facts, trying to piece the circumstances together. Five months of work. Five months of sorting through every Simon Parks, dead and alive, in the country. Five months of digging through reported molestations and trying to find other victims. Five months of nothing, and now—a bunch of pieces that she can’t assemble into anything. There is the rap of knuckles against wood and she turns to see her editor, a woman whose patience in the area of Simon Parks is beginning to run thin. Today, however, her face is friendly. “Shipping and Receiving just called. There’s something for you at the front desk.”
She pushes away from the desk slowly, making a final note on the page before sliding her bare feet into her sandals and standing, her walk to the reception area unhurried. She rounds the corner and slows when she sees the neat stack of boxes, stacked high on the counter. “These all for me?” she asks the receptionist, reaching forward and signing the release form.
“Yep. This envelope goes with it.” The woman passes over a thick manila envelope. Eyeing the sender’s name, Charlotte’s heart picks up pace.
Snagging the envelope, she glances toward the boxes. “Can you have someone bring these to my office?”
She doesn’t wait for a response. Instead, she heads back to her desk, her hands hurriedly prying open the envelope and pulling out a thick stack of pages.
Dear Charlotte,
I didn’t know who you were. If I had, maybe I wouldn’t have avoided you. Then again, maybe I would have. I don’t know. I saw a video of Simon four years ago, and have tried to forget it ever since. I’ve hidden when I could have been helping. Please forgive me for that. I was mourning the death of my daughter, and struggling with guilt. I was convincing myself that I was both the villain and the victim, and completely lost sight of the children and women like yourself.
I can’t fix the last four years. I can’t go back twenty, to before he became a monster. The only thing I can do is move forward and ask you to help me. With this letter should be several things. One is a manuscript—it is the story of my relationship with Simon, and the truth about his death. I’m sorry for not sharing that story with you in person, and for not listening to your own. In addition to the manuscript, there will be several boxes. They contain every videotape that Simon had. I haven’t watched them. I hope most of them are innocent recordings, but fear that a majority of them will be documented instances of pedophilia and molestation. There is also Simon’s laptop, and the hard drive to his computer. I don’t know his passwords, but my estate will pay for the forensic analysis necessary to pull whatever incriminating files may exist.
If you are receiving this letter, and these items, I have passed away from a combination of terminal cancer and pharmaceutical assistance. In death, I hope to be a better person than I was in life. I hope to right some of Simon’s wrongs, and am writing to ask for your help in doing so.
I understand that you are an investigative journalist. Your job is to find and uncover secrets, to research. I would like you to track down Simon’s victims, using the tapes and his computer files. I have appointed an executor, an attorney who will equally compensate each documented victim that you find. There isn’t a way to reimburse a child’s innocence, but money is the only thing I have to give them. Money, and the peace of knowing that he is dead. I hope this will, in some small way, help their struggle. You will, of course, be the first compensated victim. My attorney will also reimburse you for any travel or expenses incurred in finding and confirming the victims. If you need additional compensation for your time, please request that from him.
Words are how I have made my living, but I am at a loss of what to say to you. I will never understand what you went through. I will never understand how I fell in love with a man who would do such terrible things.
Thank you for reaching out to me. I’m sorry that I was too afraid to speak to you. I’m sorry that, right now, I am taking the coward’s way out, and writing you instead of speaking to you in person.
Thank you, in advance, for your help.
Sincerely,
Helena Ross
She has passed her office. She turns back, stepping into the small room, and sinking into her chair, rereading the last lines of the letter, her hands careful as she sets the stack of pages onto her desk. She moves the letter to the side, the next item giving her pause, a check clipped onto the top of a letter, one from an Antonio Sacco, an estate attorney in New York. She ignores the letter, her eyes skimming across the check, over and over, the sounds of the office, the chill in the air, everything fading at the pale green check with the neat, cramped writing. Her name so clearly stated. The amount stuttering across the page. One million dollars.
Funny how, in a single moment, your entire life can change.
She moves the check with careful precision, hiding it underneath Helena’s letter, then picks up the manuscript. It’s the first she has ever held, hundreds of pages clipped together, the title page simple, with only the title and Helena’s maiden name.