“Look, guys, I’m so sorry. I’m beat. I’m going to have to go and sleep. I’ll call you as soon as I know what time I’ll be getting back, okay?”
My parents both wished me goodnight, and Mom told me to take care of myself about fifteen times. I was headed up to bed, trying not to look in the direction of Ronan’s study, when I felt a familiar niggle of doubt shoot through me. Why did he do it? Why? I was never going to know if I didn’t read that damned letter. I wanted to go home, yes, but how frustrating would it be to never truly understand what had happened and why? If I didn’t go into Ronan’s office and get that letter, I was going to be in the dark forever. And he owed me, damn it. He owed me an explanation. What he did wasn’t fair to me, and it really wasn’t fair to his kids.
I halted on the stairs, fear already prickling at my skin. I was going to do it. Being afraid was stupid. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum had taken Ronan’s body away hours ago. There was nothing in there now, but the unreasonably superstitious part of me was convinced Ronan’s spirit was still lurking in there, poking around in among the books and all of his papers, waiting for someone to come visit him.
Stupid. Really stupid.
I marched down the stairs, across the hallway and straight into the office, holding my breath. Nothing happened. The room was empty. The chair Ronan must have used to climb up onto his desk had been tucked neatly away. All of the sheets of paper on his desk were straight, apart from one small white envelope—the one I had come in here to find. It sat on top of a thick, leather-bound book that looked like it had been carried around by someone for years, all covered in scratch marks, a deep brown oil mark down the spine, probably from extended periods of handling. On top of the envelope and the book, something glinted and shone in the dark—gold and purple. A medal. A purple heart.
“Shit,” I whispered to myself.
The room, despite the fact that it was full of brand new furniture and still had that universal Ikea smell of flat pack bookcases and fresh woven fabric, was already filled with a sense of emptiness that chilled me inside.
Ronan had claimed the room forever now. No matter what, the space would always carry the history of his actions within its four walls. I picked up the medal first, turning it over in my hand. It looked pristine, brand new, like it had never been handled before. George Washington eyed me balefully from the cast of the metal, stern and cold. I dropped it back on the desk, snatched up the letter, then retreated out of the room at a run, my heart beating out of my chest.
It felt a lot safer sitting at the kitchen counter to read the note. My name was slashed across the envelope like Ronan had been in a terrible hurry when he’d written it.
Inside, the letter:
Ophelia,
We met for the first time today. You weren’t impressed with me in your interview, I could tell, but I was impressed by you. You weren’t flustered. You were respectful and polite, even when I was rude. You were steady. You were calm. You were exactly what I need you to be now, in this moment, when you’re reading this letter.
You probably think I’m a monster, and I suppose I am in a lot of ways. I haven’t made this decision lightly. Know I have wrestled endlessly over my decision to take my own life. Not because I wanted to live, but because of the effect it will have on the children. I haven’t second-guessed myself. Ever since Magda died, I’ve wanted to follow after her. My family was fairly religious when I was growing up—Roman Catholic—but I haven’t believed in that stuff for a very long time now. I don’t think Magda’s cancer was a test handed down to her by a higher power. I think more than likely it was a shitty hand dealt to her in a game of poker she didn’t even realize she was playing. But if there’s a chance there is an afterlife, something more that we go to when we leave this plane of existence, then I have to hope that I’ll be joining her soon.
I don’t expect you to understand how I can risk my children’s happiness on the slim possibility that I might be able to see my wife again. But you see, if I lived my children wouldn’t be happy. They would resent me. They would hate me. As the days, the weeks, and the months have passed me by, I have caught a glimmer of the man I am to become if I continue to live and breathe in this skin of mine, and he isn’t a good man. Before Magda, I was lost. I was weak. I was broken. I am even worse without her now.