The One Real Thing (Hart's Boardwalk) Read Online Free PDF Page A

the prettiness out of her.
    And as I read on, all my hopes and wishes for her died there on the spot.
    Inside the folder was a copy of her medical records and her date of death.
    May 8, 1976.
    The day she wrote her last letter to George.
    That was why he’d never gotten them.
    I read through the medical notes with a heavy heart. Sarah had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma in January 1976. All the time she’d been writing to George she’d been undergoing radiation therapy. The treatment had been aggressive because her cancer was aggressive, and she died of heart failure.
    I closed her records feeling impossibly sad. Now I knew why Sarah had wanted George’s forgiveness so quickly. She wanted it before she died, and he never got the chance to give it to her.
    Wiping tears from my eyes, I quickly put her records back, wishing I could unsee them and frankly wishing I could unsee the letters. There were enough unhappy endings in this life. I didn’t need to know about a stranger’s.
    However, as I worked that day, my mind kept drifting back to the man she had written to. I couldn’t help wondering if George might still be alive. I knew from Sarah’s records that she was twenty-six years old when she died. If she and George were the same age, then he would be only sixty-six years old.
    How hard could it be to find a state senator’s son who lived in Hartwell, a city so small I hadn’t even heard of it until I Googled it? Turned out it had a pretty boardwalk and gorgeous beach so it was actually quite a popular vacation spot.
    When I had another moment free I Googled “Anderson Beckwith.” Sure enough it pulled up articles on the state senator, and before I knew it I found a photo of George Beckwith. It was taken in 1982 with his father at a political rally at Princeton University. The college of George’s dreams. The college he never got to go to despite Sarah’s efforts.
    I stared at his handsome face and knew he and Sarah must have been a fine-looking couple. I wanted desperately to see a photograph of them together, when they were both young and happy.
    “God,” I muttered, clicking off the screen. Why was I so hung up on this? “You’re going crazy.”
    “Why are you going crazy?”
    I jumped, startled, as Fatima strode into my office with a cup of coffee for me. I took it gratefully but scowled at her. “Don’t creep up on me like that.”
    “Why? So I don’t catch you talking to yourself like a crazy person?”
    I sighed. “I think I might be a crazy person.”
    Fatima frowned and sipped at her own coffee. “And why is that?”
    “I did something.” I pulled my purse out from under the desk and searched through it for the envelopes. “That book you confiscated.
Pride and Prejudice
 . . . I found something inside the binding . . .” I told her everything, including my discovery of what had happened to the inmate who’d written the hidden letters.
    “Why didn’t you just say that was what you were looking for in the records room instead of lying?”
    At her waspish tone I tried to appease her. “I didn’t want you to think I’d gone nuts.”
    “I don’t think you’ve gone nuts.” Fatima looked over the letters and I saw my sadness reflected in her gaze. “This is heartbreaking shit.” She glanced up from them. “And I know why they get to you more than they probably would anyone else.”
    For a moment I froze, wondering if she— Nah. She couldn’t.
    “You can kid yourself all you want that you’re happy, but you and I both know there should be more to life than how you’re living.” Fatima handed the letters back to me, her eyes kind as she gave me some harsh truths. “You have no family, no boyfriend, and your oldest friend lives over a thousand miles away. Now, I’m glad you’re here working in this prison, but I have to ask myself what the hell made you want to work here when you clearly had so many other opportunities open to you. Can you honestly say that