Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1)(67)
Author: Jen Frederick

The box is lined in a beautiful white silk with a classic chain pattern. There are a few cards—anniversary mementos—and an envelope labeled “Ian.”

“It’s for you,” The envelope is yellowed and the ink is faded but still visible. The letters aren’t perfectly formed, as if the hand that drew them out wasn’t stable.

“I can’t read it.” He shakes his head and pushes away from the fireplace. There is only one sheet of notebook paper in the envelope; it’s soft in my grip. Because he’s not ready, I read it to myself. It takes me awhile to decipher all the letters. It might be the most reading I’ve done since high school.

Dear Ian,

I’m so sorry. For everything. I failed you time and again because I’m weak. Already at fifteen, you are the man your father and I had hoped you would become. No, you are something else. Something better. And if I remain with you, tainted and tarnished, it would only diminish you.

I bite my lip to prevent my scoff. Selfish is what this is. I don’t want Ian reading it, but I must finish.

I tried to redeem us. I tried so hard, but he laughed. He laughed at your father. He laughed at me. He said that your father shouldn’t have been so soft. That he did him a favor by taking him out as early as he did before someone else ate him up.

When I asked him to help us, even after he turned your father down, I hadn’t realized what I was giving up. One night was all. One night. But the help never arrived and the one night was for naught and it has haunted me ever since.

I saw him then at the Casino Grand. Flush and ruddy faced. He apologized. Said that he had been young and brash. He offered to make amends. All I needed to do was give him one more night. This time he did pay me. But he laughed again, and I hear him still every time I close my eyes.

You will be alone, but it is better this way. Better for both of us. I am no longer an anchor but a heavy weight dragging you into the dark depths. Be free. Live for all of us.

Your loving mother,

Joanna

Carefully, I fold the letter and place it back into the envelope. My hands are shaking with the effort not to rip it into a million shreds so that Ian will never be able to piece it together. Across the room he is grim-faced. His glass is full once more. He must have filled it while I was reading. He tosses back half of it, his face marked by utter despair.

“You know,” I croak.

He nods, drinks the rest of the whiskey. In two strides he’s at the sofa, pulling the letter out of my hands. “It was with the scarf when I went to pick up her things.”

I don’t say “I’m sorry” because those are the two most ineffectual words in the English language. They won’t take his pain away or bring back his mother. When he said he was alone in this world, I didn’t realize how deeply the ache of isolation went for him.

I am overwhelmed by the extent of his devotion to me and his willingness to sacrifice to make me happy.

But it is too much.

Far too much.

The scales will never be even.

I reach out my hand and pull his head into my lap.

“Turn out the light, Tiny.” The words are tight and clipped.

I reach over and the light is swallowed by the shadows. Hugging him against me, I cry the tears he won’t release. This matter with Richard Howe is not finished. For all that Ian has said that he wants to look forward, this horrible truth will always hold him back. Hold us back.

“Don’t leave me,” Ian shudders, soundless emotion shaking his frame.

“I won’t. Not ever.” And then I’m finally able to say the words. “I love you, Ian Kerr. More than anything.”