When I did open it, three months later, it was almost disappointing. It was four pages. She apologized. She said she had not been in her right mind. She said she had panicked. She said she did not remember deciding to give the officer my name — it had just "come out of her mouth." She said she knew she had destroyed our friendship and she accepted it, but she wanted me to know, one time, in writing, that it was a mistake and that she hated herself and that she was — now, finally — going to rehab. She had already checked in.

She was writing from a residential facility in Flagstaff. She said she would not contact me again. The last line of the letter said, "I know I was a bad friend to you for years. I just hope you know that the lie that night was not the thing I was trying to do. I was trying to save myself, and I grabbed for the closest name I had, and it happened to be yours. I know that makes it worse, not better. I don't expect you to forgive it. I just wanted to tell you what it was." I read the letter twice. I folded it. I put it in a drawer. I did not write back.