The Water Between Us

Winter arrived quietly in Beaufort.

The wind turned sharp off the water, and Evelyn complained daily about her knees.

Simone returned to work full-time.

She also began building something new.

The proceeds from the sale of the Raleigh house became the first contribution to the Ava Brooks Foundation, a nonprofit focused on emergency assistance for pregnant women leaving dangerous homes and on legal support for victims of financial abuse.

Marcus agreed to serve on the board.

Dr. Hayes became an adviser.

Angela, the paramedic from the ambulance, accepted an invitation to speak at the launch.

When Simone called her, Angela remembered her immediately.

“I wondered about you,” she said.

“I wondered about you too.”

“How are you?”

Simone paused.

“Different.”

“That’s an honest answer.”

The foundation’s first office occupied two rooms above one of Simone’s clinics.

On opening day, a young woman named Tasha arrived with a swollen lip, a toddler, and no access to the bank account her husband controlled.

Simone did not meet her as a symbol.

She met her as a person.

Marcus’s staff obtained an emergency protective order. A social worker arranged housing. The foundation covered three weeks of expenses.

When Tasha cried and said, “I don’t know how I let it get this bad,” Simone answered carefully.

“You can ask how you got here later. Today, we work on where you go next.”

The words surprised her.

Evelyn heard about the conversation that evening.

“You talking to yourself now?”

“Maybe.”

“Good. You finally listen.”

Simone smiled.

The foundation grew faster than expected.

Local hospitals referred patients. Attorneys volunteered hours. A bank offered financial-literacy workshops and account-recovery assistance for fraud victims.

Simone insisted on one rule.

“No one tells a woman she should have known better.”

Marcus asked, “Even when she ignored obvious warning signs?”

“Especially then. Shame makes people hide. Hidden problems grow.”

He nodded. “Put that in the training.”

They did.

In February, Simone received a letter from Rebecca in prison.

She almost threw it away.

Instead, she opened it.

Rebecca wrote that she had begun working in the prison library. She apologized again, but this time the letter did not ask to be understood.

She included one fact Simone had not known.

On the morning of the lake trip, David had told Rebecca not to come.

Rebecca came anyway because she feared he planned to force Simone to sign the transfer.

I told myself I was coming to stop him, Rebecca wrote. Maybe part of me was. Another part wanted to see him choose me. I am ashamed of that truth, but it is still truth.

Simone read the line several times.

Then she folded the letter.

Evelyn asked, “You answering?”

“No.”

“Keeping it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because truth can be useful even when the person telling it is not part of your life anymore.”

In March, David wrote from federal prison.

His letter was shorter.

He said he had entered counseling. He said he did not expect a reply. He asked one question.

Was she going to hold a memorial for Ava?

Simone had postponed that decision for months.

She had told herself she was waiting until the criminal cases ended.

Really, she had been afraid that a memorial would make the loss too official.

Now it was already official in every possible way.

Medical records.

Court testimony.

A grave marker she had not yet visited.

An empty nursery sold with the house.

A foundation carrying Ava’s name.

Still, Simone had never stood somewhere and said goodbye.

She called Dr. Hayes.

Then Angela.

Then Isaiah.

Then Marcus.

Finally, she asked Evelyn.

“Do you think it’s time?”

Evelyn took her hands.

“Baby, time doesn’t decide. You do.”

Simone looked out toward the marsh.

For months, she had fought for evidence, safety, property, justice, and survival.

Now there was one thing left that could not be won.

It could only be mourned.

“Yes,” she said.

“It’s time.”

The foundation’s legal team later created a simple checklist based partly on Simone’s experience: independent account access, copies of identity documents, emergency contacts, separate passwords, and instructions for freezing credit or transfers after suspected fraud.

Simone insisted the checklist fit on one page.

“People in crisis cannot read a manual,” she said.

The first printed copy sat on her desk beneath Ava’s ultrasound photograph.

The juxtaposition hurt and comforted her at the same time.

Loss had not become a lesson she was grateful for.

She would never say that.

But she could still make knowledge from it useful.

Simone also required every volunteer to complete training on confidentiality. Her own life had been turned into gossip often enough; she refused to let women seeking help become stories exchanged for entertainment.