Spillt Ink

She had been talking about not having a handgun.  She'd had one at one time.  It was back in the time of a friend or a lover or an ex-husband; she didn't say which.  He'd taken the handgun and ended his life.  Her family had tried to get it back; they had called the police department once or twice.  It was evidence, they couldn't return it yet.  He'd written her two letters that day.  Two letters she had never read.  They, too, were evidence--his suicide notes.  She'd been curious about the letters.  What had her friend/lover/ex-husband felt the need to tell her that day?  She'd called the police department about them.  They couldn't be released.  It'd been twelve years ago that this had happened.  "I'm sure those letters have been lost or destroyed" she said, "I'll never know what was in them."