"He wrote every month," she said. "He had no idea what Eli was doing. Sometimes he guessed. Sometimes he wrote questions. He asked whether Eli liked apples or pears, whether he was afraid of dogs, whether he held a pencil with his left hand like Evan did. He kept imagining a life he couldn't see."
Cole put the mug down. "I'm sorry."
"I know." She looked toward the window. "I spent years telling myself he'd gone somewhere better and stopped thinking about us. It helped me get angry instead of lonely. Reading these means I have to be angry about something much more complicated."
"You don't have to decide how to feel today."
"That's what everyone keeps telling me. I know it's true. I still wish there were a button that would make it simpler." She managed a tired smile. "There isn't, is there?"
"Not that I've found."
Mara lifted the folder again. "I'm going to be alone for a while. Then I'm going to sit beside him. I don't know what I'll say. Maybe nothing. But I want him to understand that I'm making the decision to sit there, not pretending we never lost the years."
"He'll understand," Cole said. "Or he'll learn."
On the fourth day, Cho confirmed that Garrett had retained counsel and begun discussing cooperation with investigators. The firm was under intense scrutiny, and the officials shown in the photographs were receiving questions they could no longer redirect with an easy explanation. The public would learn more over time. There would be hearings, records to examine, claims to test, and the slow process of determining responsibility under law. Cole had no desire to stand in front of cameras and declare that everything had been solved. Real accountability would take longer than a satisfying headline.
Evan spent part of that day repairing an old motorcycle in Darla's workshop. The engine was dusty, the fuel lines aged, and the machine had been waiting for attention through two winters. He worked methodically, holding each part as though it were an ordinary problem he understood. Cole sat on the floor beside him with another set of tools. For an hour they barely spoke.
"Mara read the letters," Cole said eventually.
Evan kept looking at the engine. "I know."
"She told me."
"She sat beside me last night for an hour. Didn't say much. I wanted to apologize again. She asked me not to use apologies to fill the silence."
"Smart woman."
"She always was." Evan set down a wrench. "I don't know how to be a husband to someone I haven't shared a life with for eight years. I don't know how to be a father to a nine-year-old who has already learned not to need me."