The letter doesn't show up. Not that day, not the next. Elena checks the mail slot every morning like it might bite her, and every morning there's nothing in there but bills and wedding catalogs and the odd sympathy card from someone who doesn't really get what they're being sympathetic about."Still nothing," she tells Dante on the third morning, shutting the mailbox a little harder than she means to."It'll come when it comes." He's watching her from the kitchen doorway, coffee in hand. "You don't have to stand guard over that mailbox, Elena. Waiting for it isn't going to speed it up any.""I know." She rubs at her temple. "I just hate not knowing what he's got planned. Even locked up, he's still finding ways to get inside my head.""So don't let him." Dante crosses the kitchen, sets his cup down, takes both her hands in his. "Give yourself something else to think about. Something that's actually yours."She thinks about that a second, and something in her straightens up, like a dec
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