The Last Letter

“Do not open until my death.” It was written in flirty calligraphy, winding across the envelope.

I had never thought that my mother would have such pretty handwriting. She was a robust woman. She was built like an Amazonian, tall and lithe and hard and angled. She was not for flourishes and windy penmanship, I thought. It would have been far less surprising to find her handwriting looking exactly like that a typewriter produces.

I picked up the letter opener on my desk and sliced the envelope open. The note inside was written on heavy paper. I opened it and began to read.

“To my daughter, please find the next letter in my office.”

I held off rolling my eyes and replaced the paper in the envelope. For a writer, she wasn’t all that great at writing letters. I should have sold the house already. It should be gone. I shouldn’t have kept any memories of the woman, I should have wiped her clean from my mind.

I stood from my desk and snatched up my keys.

The drive to the house I spent my childhood in went by in a blur of red hot anger and confusion. The fickle woman had never cared to be considerate of me. Now I had to drive to her home to find out what exactly she wanted.

I searched the drawers of her desk, and when the last one was locked I searched the bookshelves to find the key. The whole endeavour took far too long. When I finally slid the drawer open, I found a stack of papers piled high and wrapped in a red ribbon. There was another envelope, addressed to me in that same cursive, that was tied under the ribbon.

I hit the chair so hard I felt it radiate through my bones. This only registered in the back of my mind. Everything was moving slower now.

The ribbon had fraying ends and it looked dirty and stained.

“You are not a child anymore. Don’t wear ribbons.”

Why, then, had she kept it?

I felt for the scrunchie in my hair. Red. Worn in defiance. Ribbons were never allowed after my father passed. They made me look like a child. They made me seem young and foolish. The reasons were endless.

I pulled the letter with shaking hands from the old ribbon. I tore the envelope open. I read it aloud to myself in the silent room. I don’t know why, perhaps to give the words more substance, to quash the loudness of my mind? Instead, it felt like her voice rang out across the room. It was no longer as stern as it had once been. It was softer somehow.

“This is my manuscript, my life’s work. I give it to you upon my death. It is for you to decide what will become of it. Hide it to haunt yourself. Burn it, if you like. Publish it, if you will. Just know that you are the real legacy I leave behind. Please dig up my favourite rose bush to find the key you are looking for.”

I almost choked on the second to last line. But the last line stilled my heart and anger surged. She buried the key. She buried it.

I drew my phone from her pocket and called Tim. I was already down the winding steps to the courtyard by the time he picked up. His voice was groggy. I assumed immediately that he had been sleeping during the day again. I barely waited for him to speak.

“Can you bring me a shovel?”

There was a pause. “Was there someone else you wanted murdered?”

I stopped short of the back door. “I never wanted her murdered, Tim.”

“Well,” Tim yawned. “Someone did.”

“I didn’t.”

“I know.”

There was a pause.

“Who are we burying?”

I chewed on my check. “I think I might be able to find out who killed my mother. Bring a shovel to her house for me, would you?”

Tim arrived about 20 minutes later looking haggard, his hair mussed. He held a shovel in one hand and cocked his brow at me when I reached for it without greeting him. I handed him her letter as I turned to dig up the prettiest of the rose bushes.

Tim whistled. “So you think she buried the key to her safe under a rose bush and that the safe might contain evidence of who killed her?” I didn’t respond, just grunted as I continued digging. “Why?”

“Read the date on the letter.”

“November last year?”

“Doesn’t it sound like she thought she was about to die?”

Tim paused for a moment and I could feel his eyes on my back. “Let me help you.”

Tim and I managed to disconnect the rose bush from its intense roots system before dark and scrabbled around in the dirt with our bare hands, looking for the key. There was no sign of it. We sat, panting, covered in dirt, and sweating.

“This must not have been her favourite,” Tim murmured quietly. I looked around at the other bushes as he continued, “Why do you care so much, Kate? I thought you hated her.”

“Yes, but it was my job to hate her, not anyone else’s.” I stabbed a finger in the direction of the rotted rose bush in the corner. It was a mangled thing that was so brown and twisted it was barely noticeable in the corner. “I bet you anything that that was her favourite. She kept telling me I needed to like a challenge. That thing certainly looks like one.”

This rose bush was far easier to pull free from the ground. I could make out a little cardboard box buried in the ground. I pulled it free and retrieved the key from within.

It was at this time that the doorbell rang. Something heavy descended into the pit of my stomach. I turned to Tim. “Did you tell anyone I was here?”

Tim went pale and shook his head.

I shoved the key into my pocket frantically and snatched the envelope from the ground where it had been discarded as I climbed to my feet and moved towards the back door. I made it to the back hallway when I heard the doorbell ring again. I felt goosebumps rise on my arms and the tiny hairs lift at the nape of my neck.

“You don’t think - ?” Tim muttered beside me, eyes wide in the darkly lit hallway. I shuddered. 

“I do think.”

Tim and I paused. There was another ring of the doorbell. They knew someone was here. They had to. I groaned softly. Our cars were both at the front of the property.

I reached for my phone then thrust it at Tim. “Call the police.”

“It could be nothing.”

I had thought about that already. Maybe I was overreacting. But I remembered what the police had said. We believe she was being watched for some time. Whoever was at the front of the property knew we were here, but we had only been here for about five hours.

Then I remembered her letter. It was a big assumption to make. But she had written the letter, sounding as though her death were imminent, over nine months before she died. It had to mean something.

“Call the police.”

Tim took my phone without further hesitation and dialled the emergency number. I could hear him murmuring to the responder on the other end as I crept towards the door. The doorbell went again, ringing out powerfully through the darkness. It felt as though it held the strength to knock me over. Then it went again. And again. And again. One after another, overlapping maliciously, the sound rang out.

I reached the door. I only hesitated for three more rings before I pulled it open.

I was greeted by the pointy end of a gun. Beyond it, my mothers’ agent stood. Flabby and stuffed into an ill-fitting suit with greasy hair slicked back against his balding head, eyes burning, he levelled the gun at my forehead.

“Where’s Tim?”

“Not here.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Mr Kilroy hissed. He stepped through the doorway and I shuffled backwards, my eyes trained on the gun. A quiet had come over me. This made sense. The manuscript hidden in her desk drawer, the hidden keys to the safe. Everything made sense. I felt all emotion melt away. “Lover boy has been following you everywhere since you were knee-high.”

“He’s not here.”

Tim defied me by stepping out into the open. I heard the footsteps behind me on the marble floor and saw Mr Kilroy’s eyes dart to somewhere on my left. He must have said something. I didn’t hear it. I was already moving. Like a lot of the things I’ve done in my life, I don’t know why I did what I did next.

I jumped at Mr Kilroy. The man was slower than me and the sheer surprise of my move and the momentum threw us both to the ground. I landed on top of him but for some reason had put my hand out. I felt pain jolt through my wrist.

The gun went off.

My ears began to ring, but I had already moved to grab the gun. The pain in my wrist did not slow me down. I grappled with him. My vision was narrowed to the gun held in Mr Kilroy’s hand. Everything else had gone black and blurry. He had raised his hand with the gun above his head. I felt my knee connect with him as I tried to use it to climb above him. I felt him flinch away.

Then I watched as Tim’s boot came down on Mr Kilroy’s wrist. Mr Kilroy bucked underneath me, but the gun had already left his hand. Tim kicked the gun away and grabbed me by the shoulders to haul me to my feet. My ears were still ringing, everything slowly coming back into focus.

Mr Kilroy lay frozen on the ground, Tim’s boot pressing against his neck. Flashing blue and red lights filled the room, lighting up the darkness. There must have been sirens too, but I didn’t remember hearing them later.

The rest was a blur. Navy blue men coming through the door, guns drawn. Mr Kilroy in handcuffs. Tim moved to hold me. My knees on the ground. A blanket around my shoulders. A bandage around my wrist. A pat on my arm.

Then the last letter, retrieved from the safe staring up at me.

The entire safe was filled with items from my childhood. The contents lay around me on the ground. The tag from my ankle when I was brought home from the hospital for the first time after my birth. The doll whose head I hacked off as a six year old. The drawings I made as an angsty teen. All of my school report cards in a folder. Even a creepy little container full of my baby teeth.

The last letter read, “I was too hard on you. By the time I realised this, it was too late. You had figured out your self-worth and moved on. You always inspired me. Please know I always loved you.”

I wanted to tear it up. I keep it framed on my desk now.