Chapter 17
CHAPTER 18: The Visitation
Two months after the trial concluded, I received an unexpected letter from the state corrections department. Eleanor had requested a formal visitation. Under normal circumstances, I would have torn the notice into pieces and thrown it in the trash. But when I showed it to Sarah, she looked at me with that calm, perceptive gaze of hers.
“Go,” she said softly. “See what she has to say. Not for her sake, Julian. For yours. See the reality of what she’s become, so you can leave her in that room forever.”
The prison was a grim, brutalist structure of gray concrete and coiled razor wire, situated three hours north of the city. The air inside smelled of industrial bleach and old floor wax. I sat behind a scratched plexiglass partition in the visitor’s room, waiting for twenty minutes before the heavy steel door on the other side opened.
Eleanor stepped into the room.
The transformation was jarring. The silver gown and immaculate updo were gone, replaced by a coarse denim uniform. Her hair was streaked with gray, pulled back into a severe, utilitarian ponytail. Without her expensive cosmetics, her face looked hollowed out, the lines of bitterness and anger etched deeply into her skin. But when she sat down and picked up the telephone handset, her eyes still held that familiar, predatory glint.
I picked up my receiver, keeping my expression entirely neutral.
“You look ordinary, Julian,” she said, her voice thin and raspy through the electronic static of the phone line. “I suppose you’re enjoying spending my money.”
“It’s not your money, Eleanor,” I replied calmly. “And we didn't spend it. The foundation has already distributed its first round of grants. Arthur Pendelton’s name is on the front of a new legal aid clinic downtown.”
Her jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in her cheek. “Arthur was a fool. Just like your father. They believed in rules. Rules are for people who don't have the courage to take what they want. I built that company’s profile. I deserved every dollar.”
“You forged documents while a man was dying,” I said. “There’s no courage in that. It’s just low-level theft with a high-class vocabulary.”
May you like
Eleanor leaned closer to the glass, her fingers tapping against the pane with that same frantic rhythm she had used on the country club door. “You think you’ve won because I’m in here? This place is temporary, Julian. My attorneys are already working on an appeal. There are procedural errors in the seizure of that drive. I will be out, and when I am, I will take back everything that belongs to me.”
I looked at her—really looked at her—and I realized Sarah had been right. I felt no anger. I felt no hatred. I only felt a profound, chilling pity. She was a ghost haunting a house that had already been torn down.
