The Record Keeper (Murphy Shepherd, #3)

by Charles Martin

the more my memory returns, and the more clearly I see. You should know that I’m approaching twenty-twenty. My question is this: What do I do with all those who gave so little and stole so much? What do I do with these men who live rent-free in my mind? Am I not of value? Do you not see me?” The room was silent. “A few weeks ago, we were talking. Me and the one who rescued me. He heard this bitter tone that you now hear in me, and he told me again, ‘Write it down. Tell the truth. Let it out.’ When I asked why, he pointed at my chest. ‘This thing you’re holding on to—this rage—is the poison we drink thinking it’ll kill someone else.’ So . . . once again, I am. Reminding me that those men stole pieces of my soul, and I want my pieces back.” Casey paused. Making eye contact with many in the room. “Why? Because in the blurred edges of my mind, I remember . . . I’m a daughter. A friend. One day I’d like to be a wife and—if my body can—a mom.” Casey was whispering now. “It’s my love letter to the me I used to be. And to all those like me.”