Chapter 5: Four Letters

I walked out of that study with the whole drawer in my laundry basket.

Nobody stopped me.

Constance only watched, and I understood why when I reached the front door.

She thought a stack of old letters could not hurt her.

Dean had followed me down the stairs, and his voice came after me down the path.

"You'll be home by Friday, Kate. You have no money."

I put the basket on the truck seat and drove to the river.

I parked under the cottonwoods by the boat ramp and turned off the engine.

Then I sorted them into piles.

Bills, cards from friends, a seed catalogue.

Four envelopes in blocky handwriting.

And a bundle of fourteen long white envelopes, each addressed to me.

Each one was stamped Brandt Supply Co. in green ink.

My father's company had been sold the month he died.

That was what I had been told.

I put the white ones aside, because my hands were shaking too hard to open them.

I tore open the first of Clark's letters instead.

Katie, it began. This is Clark Holter, from the yard. I'm writing because I couldn't say it at the church.

I stopped reading.

A truck door slammed behind me.

Clark had walked down the bank from the road, in his work boots, with his hands in his jacket.

He did not say anything.

He sat on the tailgate, a few feet away, and waited.

"You said you couldn't say it at the church," I said.

"I did."

"You weren't there."

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