Chapter 238

Logan

The little ornate silver box that Ella held in her hands seemed oddly familiar, yet also somehow foreign at the same time. When she opened it, though, recognition slowly began to wash over me.

Nights sitting on my mother’s lap at her vanity began to trickle back in. I remembered this little box; she had always kept her keepsakes in there, along with some makeup. Even now, all these years later, I could still recall watching as she would open the box before a night out.

She’d take the little tin of eyeshadow and spread it on her eyelids. It was gold and sparkled just a bit. She always said that she liked makeup that was understated, because anything else didn’t feel right on her face.

I always agreed; I never felt like she needed any makeup at all, but something about the glittery gold brought out the beautiful, vibrant blue color of her eyes.

But then I spotted something else. There was something that looked like paper sticking out of the corner of the box, and when I pulled on it, the inner bottom of the box came away. A yellowed envelope slipped out.

“To Logan,” the envelope read.

A breath hitched in Ella’s throat. “Is that from…” she began, but then her voice trailed off. I found myself wandering over to the bed, sinking down onto the edge as I stared down at the handwriting. It was undeniably my mother’s; she always wrote in cursive, and it was always a little messy. She always mixed up her m’s and her n’s.

I paused for a moment, contemplating, but I realized that I was meant to read this letter. Slowly, I opened it, and my eyes began to scan the page that was hidden within.

“Dearest Logan,” the letter began. “I am writing this letter to you with the hope that you will never need to read it. But if you are, then know this: I have always loved you, and I always will. Even in death, I’ll never stop loving you. A mother’s love knows no bounds, after all.”

I swallowed, my eyes flitting up to meet Ella’s. She was still standing there, holding the box as she stared at me. I wanted to read the letter out loud to her, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it; I needed this moment to myself. It felt too personal to share just yet.

And so I continued reading.

“You are the light of my life, Logan,” the letter continued. “I hope you know that whatever happens, it was never your fault. Whatever your father has become, it isn’t because of you. He might try to make it seem that way, but I know the truth.”

The letter went on. “If I should leave this world suddenly, know that it was not by choice,” it said. “I’ve discovered some things that I never should have. I’ve told people some things that should have been left in the shadows, and he found out. I don’t think I’ve got much longer, but I fear that if I go to the police, he’ll harm you. So I’ll go quietly.”

My hands trembled as I read my mother’s words, a chill running down my spine. The implications of her message were clear, and a rage began to build inside of me, a fire fueled by years of unanswered questions and veiled truths.

Suddenly, I felt like I was a kid again, coming home from school to find a disaster in my home. My father had had his explanations, but I had always had my suspicions. And now it was all beginning to come together.

“Forgive me, my darling, for the secrets I have kept and the burdens I have unwittingly passed onto you,” my mother kept writing. “But even in the darkest of times, I urge you to remember the power of love and forgiveness.”

Her plea for forgiveness felt like a heavy weight in my chest. It didn’t make any damn sense; how could I forgive when so much had happened? How could I forgive the man who had taken away the one person who had really cared for me since I could remember?

But I kept reading, even though my hands were gripping the pages so tight I was certain they would rip.

“You’re not like them, Logan,” she wrote. “You are of Leonard’s blood, but you are not his son, not in the ways that truly count. I know you can carve your own path, if only you’ll forgive. Spread the light of your smile, just as you always have. It was always my favorite thing about you.”

As I reached the end of the letter, I felt myself let out a breath that I didn’t know I had been holding. My hands dropped to my lap, still holding the letter as I slowly lifted my gaze to meet Ella’s. There must have been a world of emotions in my eyes, because her own eyes reflected it right back at me.

“Logan?” she whispered.

I opened my mouth to respond, but no words would come. Not yet, at least. I was still processing, chewing my mother’s words in the back of my mind. Forgiveness… how could I possibly forgive my father after everything he had done? No, I didn’t feel like forgiving; I felt like exacting vengeance.

But it was too late, because he was already dead and buried.

Suddenly, as I was sitting there, I felt something fall into my lap. Furrowing my brow, I looked down to see that it was a photograph that had been tacked onto the back of one of the pages.

I picked it up, and felt my heart wrench.

It was a picture of us, my mother and I, our smiles bright and full of life. We looked so much alike, her eyes mirrored in mine, her joy reflected in my face. I was so little, hardly more than five or six.

And we were sitting on a carousel horse together. A chestnut one, with a flowing mane and a wild look in its eyes.

I gently traced the outlines of our faces, lingering on hers. Everything else seemed to fade away in that moment, and suddenly, the words my mother had mentioned— “Spread the light of your smile, just as you always have. It was always my favorite thing about you.”

It seemed to make sense now. It was like a distant port in a storm, hidden by fog, but I knew it was there. I could see the light emanating from the lighthouse, beckoning to me.

Maybe forgiveness was possible, someday.

But then, I felt something else that was unusual, a slight bulge taped to the back of the photo. Curious, I peeled it back, revealing a small, metallic object.

Ella, who had been watching me silently this whole time, finally spoke up. “What is it, Logan?”

I held it up, turning it over in my hands. It was a key, old and slightly tarnished, but unmistakably a key. More specifically, judging from the numbers on it, it was a key to a vault.

“It’s a key,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “A key to a vault at the bank.”