Chapter 88 Tristan

• I withdraw my head from my hands and stare at them. I see then that they aren’t angry; they are sad. They lost their daughter, and they have no one to blame for it, so they blame me. They’re hurting and living in the satisfying delusion that their lovely daughter didn’t kill herself, that I did.
• I rise off the chair then and remove the sheet of paper from my pocket. I read it once two years ago and never did it again. I open it, and the brown paper is stained with drops of years-old tears.
• “Here,” I stretch it out to Ellen, who looks at me like I’m handing her a bomb.