Chapter 10 - The Last Delivery
One year after the arrest of Hudson Vance, a thick brown manila envelope arrived at the front desk of the Otisville Federal Correctional Institution.
It was addressed to inmate #84920-054.
Hudson sat at a metal bench in the prison recreation yard, the cold concrete walls topped with razor wire casting long, jagged shadows across the dirt. He was wearing his faded prison uniform, his hands rough and calloused from his assigned work detail in the prison laundry.
The guard tossed the envelope onto the table.
"Mail call, Vance. Legal documents."
Hudson’s heart leaped. For twelve months, he had sent dozens of handwritten letters to my bakery, to my attorney, and to my personal email address. Letters begging for forgiveness, letters asking for money, letters claiming that he was still the same man I fell in love with in college. Every single one had been returned unopened, stamped: *RETURN TO SENDER — UNRECIPIENT UNKNOWN.*
He tore the envelope open with shaking fingers, his breath catching in his throat.
Inside was not a letter.
There was a copy of the finalized divorce decree, signed by a federal judge, officially terminating our marriage and stripping Hudson of any future claim to any intellectual property, revenue, or assets associated with Sugar & Crumb LLC.
Attached to the decree was a single page torn from a luxury real estate magazine.
It featured a photograph of the penthouse apartment in Miami—the very property Hudson and Victoria had purchased with their stolen slush fund, which had recently been seized and liquidated by the federal government at auction.
The buyer was listed in bold print at the bottom of the page:
*Sugar & Crumb Hospitality Group — Corporate Retreat & Executive Residency.*
And paperclipped to the top of the magazine clipping was a small, elegant card made of heavy cardstock, bearing the embossed gold logo of my bakery.
On the back, written in my clear, steady handwriting, were six simple words:
*Thanks for keeping me busy, Hudson.*
Hudson stared at the card.
May you like
The wind blew across the barren prison yard, rustling the edges of the glossy paper. From the prison guard tower, a siren sounded, signaling the end of recreation time and the return to the locked, windowless cells.
Hudson Vance folded the paper slowly, bowed his head into his rough, scarred hands, and wept.
