Chapter 14 - Letters from the Void
One quiet Sunday afternoon, sitting in the sunlit study of the restored coastal cottage I had purchased near the Virginia coastline, Jonathan Hayes handed me a sealed envelope stamped with federal correctional markings from a penitentiary in upstate Pennsylvania.
"It arrived at the estate corporate office yesterday," Hayes said quietly, setting his coffee cup down. "You don't have to read it, Leah. I can burn it with the rest of their junk."
I looked at the scrawled, frantic handwriting on the envelope. It was from Bryce.
I tore open the seal and unfolded the cheap, lined prison paper.
Leah,
I don't know if you'll ever read this. The guards tell me you’re a Major now. They tell me the company is worth double what it was when Dad ran it. I spend twenty-three hours a day in an eight-by-ten cell. Mom hasn't visited me in eight months. She moved to Jacksonville and married some retired boat salesman. She doesn't answer my letters.
I have nightmares every night about that country club party. If I could turn back the clock... if I had just told Dad to treat you right... if I had just worked an honest job... I know you hate me. You have every right to. But please, if there is any shred of human mercy in your heart, write to the warden and tell them I’m eligible for minimum security transfer. It’s brutal here, Leah. I’m scared all the time.
— Bryce.
I read the letter slowly, every desperate, pathetic sentence proving just how little Bryce had actually learned. Even in a federal prison cell, his primary concern was his own comfort, his own misery, and using other people to lighten his burden. There wasn't a single word of genuine remorse for the lives he had ruined or the employees whose retirements he had stolen.
Beside Bryce’s letter lay a small, official notification from the Bureau of Prisons regarding Arthur Mercer. Arthur had suffered a mild coronary event in prison hospital and had officially waived his right to any future parole reviews out of deep, insurmountable depression. He spent his days working in the prison library, never speaking to visitors, a forgotten man buried by his own colossal failures.
I folded Bryce’s letter back into thirds, slid it neatly into the envelope, and picked up a wooden match from the fireplace mantel.
I struck the match, watched the bright yellow flame catch the corner of the envelope, and dropped it into the cast-iron fireplace grate. The paper curled, blackened, and dissolved into harmless, drifting ash.
May you like
"Any response?" Hayes asked gently, watching the smoke drift up the chimney.
"None," I said softly, looking out the panoramic bay window where the Atlantic ocean sparkled under the afternoon sun. "Some doors are meant to stay locked forever."
