split up, but the judge said it was for the best. We were to stay with family and that meant we were going separate ways.
So when Christopher hugged me and he started crying like I wanted to, I had to be strong. Dad would have wanted me to. I made it quick and then I ripped him off of me, telling him I’d see him soon and to act right.
I’ve carried that guilt and regret with me for as long as I can remember. As I sit here in the bar, it overwhelms everything and that should be my cue to stop drinking, but the beers come easy and the memories … I don’t want to let go of them.
“A love letter?” the waitress jokes, nodding her head at the note in my hand as the beer hits the bar top. I only huff a laugh and she gets the hint, taking off before I feel obligated to say anything more.
A small boy’s laughter resonates in the back of my mind, complete with a picture of my little brother smiling as he makes fun of me: a love letter.
He wouldn’t be a child any longer, though. And whoever wrote this, isn’t my brother. The second part of that statement is the one I’m hung up on.
I was a little messy with this one but you’ll help me, won’t you?
I’ve done what I can to help you and I know you want to help me too.
Now’s your chance. I’ve been looking forward to this. For so long. I miss you.
He didn’t sign a name. The note is written in blue ink and the handwritten font itself is unique. All the letter As are written two different ways. When I looked it up in the system, searching for a match so I could come up with a suspect list, I was shocked at the number of hits it got.
All over the tristate area and for all sorts of crime. From petty theft five years ago, to money laundering cases that led to murder and a wanted serial killer in this part of Pennsylvania. There was even a hit from an apology note dating back almost a decade ago. A brick was thrown into a small sandwich shop and food stolen. The apology note is what tipped me off. Christopher used to say sorry that way. I know it was wrong and I’ll make it right.
He always said that right after he said he was sorry. Always. The deep-down gut feeling just won’t let that go. The detectives working the case left a synopsis that sends a chill down my spine.
They suspected a young boy at first, or a very uneducated adult because of the grammar and spelling. As the crimes increased in intensity and number, they were able to narrow down the criminal profile. It was textbook how the crimes progressed.
Now he’s a serial killer. And a shadow who’s followed me for years.
The beer slips from my hand, luckily landing with a clank and then bottoming out on the tabletop. With a glance over my right shoulder, then the left, I pull my shit together.
My brother would have been that old then. My brother would fit a description of a young white male in his early twenties.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” I say then clear my throat, sitting at the very end of a bar in Delilah’s hometown. “I was just starting, only a month in. And I thought …” I pause to take in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of pale ales and IPAs from the draft the bartender pours. The mug is tilted and the foam spills over to the sound of another classic rock song coming on.
“At first I thought I … I didn’t know what to think. It was a hunch and I thought maybe I just wanted him to be alive, you know?” The men in the back make a ruckus when someone hits the dartboard. We’re surrounded by clatter and barflies, but I’ve never felt more alone.
Until Delilah leans forward, her hands wrapped around an untouched glass of white wine. She peeks up at me and then scoots closer, her right side brushing up against mine.
“You wanted him to be alive.”
“It was more than that … the way he said things … they were different for me than they were for the other notes and they hit on memories.
“It was like he wanted me to know, but he never outright said it.