Time has never passed so fast, yet so slowly.

It’s already dark outside when I reach the last letter. If what he wanted from me was sympathy. I fear he got it.

I learned he grew up in a gang. He never met his mother. He wanted to do better—but he needed money. And quick money meant seducing girls like my daughter. Disgusting yet more the fault of society then his. No no no.

He says he regrets it. That she was too smart. That he never should have hit her.

That part—I can’t forgive.

He turned my daughter into a broken girl, scared and silent, who took months to recover.

Luckily, she never became the hooker he wanted her to be.

I don’t want him nearby. But I also can’t call the cops.

Why? I have everything I need—twenty letters in a cardboard box.

Maybe I should have helped him long ago. Maybe he just needed a mother figure. Someone who wouldn’t use him. Someone who’d give him a warm meal and a safe place to sleep. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

He tells me about his life now. He escaped from jail. He left after protecting a young boy who stole cheese. Said it reminded him of himself.

I want to know how his story ends. Maybe I can still help him.

Maybe I can protect my daughter… by raising him better this time.

My head is spinning. I feel so, so guilty.

Why?

This is the man who hurt my daughter. Who nearly destroyed my family. Who mistreated who-knows-how-many women. He is the epitome of evil, I think.

I step outside before I reach for the last piece of his mind, this boy needs somebody to talk to. I sniff the cool night air before going back inside. This isn't me: I am most definitely insane.

Eagerly, I open the last envelope.

It’s not a letter—it’s a document.

The paper is thicker, more formal. Typed, not handwritten.

It’s a list of names. All girls.

I skim the list. Number 14: my daughter.

It doesn’t take long to understand. This is a record of the girls he trapped. A list of victims.

What does he want me to do with this? Confess for him? Protect him?

I stare at the list, my hands trembling. I could have saved these girls. Maybe I still can.

I reach for my phone.

It’s not on the table. Not on the counter. I stumble to the couch—nothing.

Hurry. If I hesitate now, I might choose him over them. Over my daughter.

I rip open the freezer. There it is—my phone, ice-cold but still alive.

I stare at the screen. What’s the right thing to do?

If I turn him in, that poor boy will be trapped forever. All because he dared to be honest with me. Or... did he?

Something doesn’t add up. Why would he confess all this to a woman he barely knows?

A lie is oftentimes so much easier to tell than a truth to be felt.

Guilt twists in my stomach. I hit "Call."

In one breath, I tell the police everything.

Every word. Every letter and every emotion this boy must have felt. I hope he doesn't get arrested and the girls get saved.

They tell me to stay calm. I should have called my daughter first and afterwards I should have burned the evidence.