When we get home that night, Walker collects the post and begins rifting through it while we're in the lift. His fingers pause and I glance at what he's holding.

There in the top corner of the envelope is a prison stamp.

The air in my chest feels suddenly cold as I reach for the letter. I'm not sure I even want to read it. I force my fingers to tear the envelope open. I can feel Walker's eyes on me. He's worried. I'm good at making him worry.

I scan the page, not ...