I made sure of that.
And it’s worked. It’s worked for over five years, ever since I had my name legally changed. The P.O. box is not that expensive and it’s well worth the money I’ve spent. Yeah, I get the occasional letter from prison. I also receive letters from reporters seeking me out. Once a publisher wrote me, wanting to hear my side of the story.
I ignored them all. How they found my address, I’m not sure. The P.O. box address isn’t made public that I know of, but I don’t necessarily make it completely private, either. And no one knows Ethan Williams is William Monroe.
No one.
Approximately once a month I stop by the post office and clean out my mailbox. I go during off times when I think no one will be around so I can sneak in with relative anonymity. I haven’t received a letter from my father in over six months, maybe even closer to a year. Hell, I can’t remember the last time he wrote me. It’s been a relief, not hearing from him. His ranting, rambling letters are exhausting.
I pull out a pile of junk mail—newspaper mailers, postcard advertisements, the car insurance letters that are addressed to “resident.” But nestled among the miscellaneous junk mail, there is a letter waiting for me. I’d recognize that scrawling handwriting anywhere.
Dread consuming me, I toss the junk mail into a nearby garbage can and stare at the letter, the return address mocking me. I slam the metal door shut, turning the key with a hard yank before I pull it out. Shoving the key into the front pocket of my jeans, I clutch the letter so hard, it crinkles in my fingers as I stride out of the post office. My head down, my breath coming fast.
I don’t want to read the damn letter. But I have to.
I have to.
Waiting until I get inside my car, I tear open the envelope with shaking fingers, cursing under my breath at my nervousness. I know what made him write. I can sense it.
He saw the interview.
He saw Katie.
I pull the lined white paper out of the envelope and unfold it, surprised that it is only one page. His writing is small, every word tightly packed on each line, and I squint, trying to decipher it.
Dear Will,
It’s been a long time. I haven’t seen you since I don’t know when and it hurts that you don’t come around. I miss you. I wish you’d visit me and I try my best to understand why you don’t, but it’s hard. Can’t say that I enjoy the way you ignore me. A man gets lonely up here without any family around. No son to smile at and see how he’s doing.
It’s tough in here but I stand my ground. Not that you care. Why can’t you even write me? I don’t know what you do, where you live. Why all the secrets? I’ve found God, you know. He’s my savior, the Man who now guides me and has taught me right from wrong. I know what I’ve done is something I have to live with for the rest of my life but I’ve forgiven myself. Now I am in search of forgiveness from the people I’ve affected with my rash decisions. I hope that maybe someday you can forgive me for all the wrongs I’ve done to you throughout your life.
Did you see the interview with Katherine Watts? I watched it, every last awful minute of it. She lied. She makes me sick, with all of her lies. I was kind to her, as best as I could be considering at the time, I was sick. I kept her in a safe place. I was going to return her to her family. That she accused me of such filthy, horrible things . . . it hurts. What hurts worse? Because she’s pretty and so young and sincere, everyone believes her. That bitch Lisa Swanson ate up every word she said. It makes me sick.
With a few choice words I look like a disturbed predator, thanks to Katherine Watts. Yes, I had issues, but I wasn’t some evil monster. I wish that bitch Lisa Swanson would talk to me. I could change her mind about what kind of man I am. I’m not as bad as they make me out to be.
Katherine Watts is no pure, sweet angel either. She’s a silly little whore, just like every other woman out there. Wish everyone could see that.
Hope you see it. Hope you come see me. A man needs his family, son, and you and me, we’re just alike. We’re all we’ve got.
Don’t ever forget that.
Love,
Dad
I crumple the letter in my hands until it’s a tight little ball pressed against my palm, my fingers curled into a fist around it. Closing my eyes, I hit the back of my head against the car seat once. Again, harder this time, like I can knock sense into my brain, but it’s not working. Nothing works. His words replay on a loop in my head, taunting me, making the feeling worse.
Silly little whore. I look like a disturbed predator. I miss you. You and me, we’re just alike. We’re all we’ve got. Don’t ever forget that.