Chapter 39 Erin
Erin
Another year went by while I tried to forget about Milo, but the things he said could not be forgotten.
Why would he have attacked Ruby in our home?
Why not a girl in his own neighbourhood, why my sister?
And how did he ever think he’d get away with it?
He had told Ruby not to speak of it, but he must have known that she would be traumatized, she would have to tell us.
Why hadn’t he claimed it was consensual?
I heard from Dad that at the trial Milo said he never even unzipped his pants.
It was such a strange defence against such overwhelming evidence. The prosecutor’s job was very easy.
The anonymous letters continued about once every two months.
I didn’t bother reading them and eventually they stopped.
But then, strange things started to happen which made me wish I’d opened them.
I was called into the boardroom at work and questioned about sending lewd photographs of myself to a male author who was edited by my boss, using my personal email address.
I had no idea what they were talking about.
The email address wasn’t a match for my personal one but they demanded access to my work email.
This horrified me. I had used my work email address for lots of things: buying lingerie online, bitching about my immediate boss to a colleague, searching various publishing houses for employment opportunities.
They couldn’t prove I’d sent anything to the writer, but my own emails were damning enough.
They didn’t take action – I guess because they couldn’t verify I’d sent the photos, which were clearly Photoshopped. I was embarrassed, though.
A few weeks later, I was called in again.
A colleague had anonymously reported me for having sex in the office with an unauthorized visitor after hours.
I was outraged by this and demanded to know who the colleague was.
They couldn’t tell me, but word spread like wildfire and people from different departments were casually passing my desk on the daily.
Nothing could be proven, and I guessed that the ‘colleague’ didn’t exist.
The reputational damage was bad, and I worried about what was going to happen next. Margie had got bored sending letters to me and started to email my company instead.
Later, the texts started. She must have had a burner phone.
I know where you live and I know where your dad lives, and where he preaches.
A week after I received that text, Dad called me from the hospital, distressed.
There had been an arson attack on his church in Boston during a service.
I left the office immediately and went to his bedside at Mass General.
Kathy told me everything. Gasoline had been poured around the rear of the church, nearest the altar.
Nobody saw a thing. Because the church was relatively modern, it had side doors as well as the traditional front door and was evacuated quickly and efficiently.
Dad kept the congregation calm. But once the church was evacuated, he ran back into the maw of flames to save the tabernacle containing the chalice.
Kathy screamed as she saw him dive into the fire.
The fire station was only a few blocks away and fortunately the firemen rescued him, but he had severe burns on both hands that caused him lifelong pain.
The fire was extinguished before it got into the main nave.
Unfortunately, Dad didn’t have security cameras around the church.
Even after everything that had happened with Ruby, he trusted everyone and didn’t think he had any enemies.
I didn’t think so either. But Margie had warned me.
I called her in a rage. ‘Leave my dad alone. He didn’t do anything.’
‘Is that Erin? Fuck you.’ She ended the call.
She didn’t deny it.
I went to the church. The damage was bad, though the congregation were already talking about fundraising and rebuilding.
Dad was sitting up in his hospital bed with his hands swathed in bandages like a boxer.
I hadn’t seen my dad cry since Milo’s trial.
I realized that the church was as important to him as his children.
I called the cops on Margie and told them everything for the first time.
A detective was assigned to the case, Irene Hernandez.
Margie was smart enough to have an alibi: she’d been out of town when the fire started, and the cops searched her studio apartment and couldn’t find any burner phone.
She did not appear to own an old typewriter.
They had also seized her laptop and found no sinister emails.
She called me in a screaming rage after Hernandez paid her a visit.
‘Arson? What next? You won’t rest until you’ve destroyed all of us.
I’m warning you. Leave me alone. I did not send any letter to you or your office.
If I never see or hear from you again, it will be too soon, you hear me? Leave me alone.’
She was angry, but she’d got the message. There was a text after that:
I didn’t intend anyone to get hurt. I’m sorry. I went too far.