October 3. Brought Patricia flowers today. Ten years. I still don’t know if the worst part is that I missed the signs or that I saw some of them and talked myself out of what they meant. This work does not bring her back. It never will. But maybe if I do enough of it, her death will not remain only a failure.
I turned the page with a hand that no longer felt entirely attached to my body.
Another entry. April 12. New arrival today. Woman in bruised denim jacket. Gave the name Helena though I suspect it isn’t the one on her birth certificate. Left arm healing badly. Asked if she wanted a place where no one would ask questions until she was ready to answer them. The look on her face nearly undid me. Same look Patricia had the first time she almost told me.
I looked up.
Helena was standing by the window, arms folded, eyes on me.
“He told me about Patricia,” she said quietly. “One afternoon in the garden. He said his sister was in a bad relationship. That by the time he understood how bad, it was already too late.”