Page 12 of Rio's Release

It's strange I didn’t even know your name when you wrote your number on my hand. I didn’t learn it until I received the subpoena to testify at your trial. Your name was on the paperwork. The State of New Mexico vs. Dalton McBride.

Is your leg okay? Did they get the bullet out?

Sorry, I guess I sound like I’m rambling.

There’s another reason I wrote this letter—something I wanted to ask you. Would it be okay if I visit you? I looked on the computer, and it says an inmate has to put a person’s name on a list before they’re allowed to visit. Would you put me on your list?

I think about you a lot.

Please write me back. Here’s my address.

2112 Sunnybrook,

Las Cruces. NM 88001

Shelby Lynch

Holy shit.

I wasn’t expecting any of that. Least of all that she’d want to visit me. My first reaction is no. Hell, no. This is no place for a girl like her.

Two days pass before I can’t stand it anymore. Then I get a piece of paper and write her back.

Shelby—

You don’t owe me anything—least of all a thank you. I did a horrible thing. What I put you through that day—the terror you must have felt—I can only tell you how sorry I am.

As far as you visiting me, this is a very depressing place and a long drive from Las Cruces. Visits are only thirty minutes, and you’d be driving over six hours here and back. So, the answer is no, I won’t add you to my visitor list.

I hope you are doing well, and that you are able to get past the trauma I caused you.

Take care of yourself, angel.

Dalton

I stare at it a long time, hesitating. In the end, I can’t resist adding six more words.

P.S. I think about you a lot, too.

“Hey, Pete, you got an envelope I can borrow?”

I never figure I’ll hear from her again, but a week later, another letter comes, then another and another. They mostly tell me about her day and ask me about my life.

I reply, and soon, we’re corresponding like pen pals. I don’t give her too much information about me, just vague details about my childhood, and I never mention the club or even that I ride. She doesn’t need to know any of that. What she seems to need is a confidant—someone other than her best friend to tell her troubles to. I’m more than happy to be that person for her. It’s the least I can do after everything I put her through.

I’ve come to realize just how much I look forward to her letters, and how depressing it is when I’m passed by with just a shake of the guard’s head.

Every time she writes, she asks me to add her to my visitor’s list, and every time I refuse.

One day after I’ve been here almost a year, and it’s closing in on the anniversary of the bank robbery, a letter comes. This one has a photo of her enclosed, one I never dared ask her for. It’s a beautiful shot of her smiling, and it makes me content to know she’s happy. At least, I hope she is. She deserves to be happy.

Dalton—

I’m turning nineteen next month on Sunday, May 25th, and there’s only one thing I want—to come see you.

Please.

—Shelby

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