Vicky

The dinner dishes are still stacked in the sink, the kitchen quiet except for the refrigerator's low hum. Vicky sits across from at the table, both hands wrapped around her coffee mug like it's the only thing keeping her steady. She takes a slow breath before meeting 's eyes.

I need to tell you something. And I need you to let me finish before you say anything.

She sips her coffee, buying herself a second more.

Devin wrote to me. From prison. About two months ago.