Her smile grew larger, and I could hear her feet tapping excitedly underneath the table, “Good.”

“You like someone?”

“Oh my God! I do not.”

“You do. Who is it?”

“How’d you know? I hate you. How did you know? Seriously.”

“I’m a mom, Mags. It’s my job to figure this stuff out.”

“Well, whatever. It’s nothing. We had one date. He hasn’t even called or anything.”

“He’ll call.”

“No he won’t.”

“He will.”

“That’s what Aunt Spencer says too.”

I swallow hard at this, letting out a sigh as I’m met again with that last conversation. Now it’s just letters. Stacks and stacks of letters that I keep hidden under my bed. Her handwriting leans forward, as though she’s trying not to forget. She tells me so in a letter from last year, but the handwriting gave her away ages ago.

“How is she?”

“Good. She’s the same, you know? I’m house-sitting for her next week. She’s finally going to take a vacation.”

“Alone?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Who cares? Anyway, she’s good.”

She makes me swear not to mention the murders. I’m charged with kidnapping only, and my sentence is light considering…

She says it’s for Maggie. She deserves a mother. I agree with this, and of course it’s easy for me to do so. It’s my time to be served.

“She asked me to give you something, though,” Maggie says, reaching into her large purse and presenting me with a thick, square envelope.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

I grip the letter in my hand, needing it so badly that even I don’t understand the true extent of my loneliness.

But it’s more than that. It’s more than loneliness. I hold the letter like a missed opportunity. Because that’s what it is. That’s what she is.

The guard signals the last minute, and I watch as Maggie begins to gather her belongings.

“I’ll see you soon then?”

“Yeah, next week.”

“Good luck with the boy. He’ll come around. And if he doesn’t, remember that you’re smart and beautiful. Anyone would be lucky to spend time with you. Trust someone who waits all week for it.”

“Yeah, well…”

She smiles at me, and we stand to hug. I try not to cry, as I always do. But tears force themselves down my face, as they always do.

“Don’t cry,” she says into my hair.

She’s taller than me now.

“Next time I won’t cry. I really won’t.”

“Yes you will.”

“Yes, I will,” I admit with a nod, and we both laugh.

She walks away and I clutch the letter as hard as I clutched her, feeling the stiff paper bend beneath my fingers.