Chapter 2 - THE LETTER FROM THE GRAVE
The car ride away from the airport was silent,
except for the soft babbling of the children in the back.
I had refused Graham’s offer of a ride,
calling a car service instead,
but I could see his black SUV following us at a distance.
He wasn't going to let us go,
not after seeing his own face reflected in three tiny mirrors.
Once we reached my small,
cramped apartment in Cambridge,
I ushered the kids inside.
I gave them their snacks,
turned on their favorite cartoon,
and sat at the kitchen table.
The envelope sat there,
mocking me.
I tore it open,
my breath hitching in my chest.
Inside was a single sheet of paper and a key to a safety deposit box.
To Emily,
the letter began,
*If you are reading this,
my son has proven himself to be the coward I feared he was.*
He thinks he chose his career over you,
but he doesn't know that I gave him no choice.
I read the lines over and over,
the words blurring through my tears.
The letter explained a dark bargain.
Graham’s father had threatened to dismantle the company,
to ruin Graham’s legacy,
unless he stayed single and focused.
Graham hadn't just left me because he wasn't ready,
he had left because he was being blackmailed by his own blood.
But the letter went further.
I watched you from afar,
I saw the birth of the three Whitaker children,
*and I have ensured they are taken care of,
regardless of what my son decides.*
A knock at the door startled me.
I didn't need to look through the peephole to know who it was.
I opened the door,
and Graham was standing there,
looking stripped of his armor.
He looked at the letter in my hand,
his eyes red-rimmed.
“She told me,”
he said,
leaning against the doorframe.
“Vanessa told me everything in the car.”
“About the blackmail?”
I asked,
bitterness coating my tongue.
“Is that your excuse,
Graham?”
“That you were protecting your bank account instead of your family?”
He stepped into the room,
the space feeling suddenly too small for his presence.
“I thought I was protecting you,”
he argued,
his voice cracking.
“My father would have destroyed your life to get to me.”
“He already destroyed it!”
I shouted,
then quickly looked toward the living room to see if the kids heard.
They were occupied,
thankfully.
“You left me alone with three babies,”
I whispered,
my anger cold and sharp.
“You let me believe I wasn't enough.”
He reached for me,
but I pulled away,
the distance between us feeling like an ocean.
“I saw them today,
Emily,”
he said,
gesturing toward the sound of the cartoons.
May you like
“I saw what I missed.”
“And I’m not leaving again.”
