Chapter 8 - The Ghost in the Cell
Two years after the opening of the haven.
Inside the high-security visitation room at the Arizona State Prison Complex in Florence, Victor Vance sat behind a thick pane of bulletproof glass.
His hair was almost completely gray, his face gaunt and covered in nervous wrinkles. The arrogant young executive who had once bragged about his family's power was completely gone, replaced by a broken, forgotten inmate serving year three of his thirty-five-year sentence.
A prison guard tapped the glass. “You have a visitor, Vance. Five minutes.”
Victor snapped his head up, his eyes widening with a sudden, desperate hope. “Maya...? Is it Maya? Did she come to see me?!”
The heavy door opened, but it wasn't me.
It was Marcus Sterling, carrying a thick manila folder. He sat down calmly on the stool across from the glass and picked up the black telephone receiver.
Victor picked up his receiver with shaking hands, his voice frantic. “Where is she?! Why didn't she come?! I sent her ten letters! I apologized! I told her I’ve changed!”
Marcus looked at Victor with cool, professional detachment.
“Ms. Ames will never read your letters, Victor,” Marcus said flatly. “They are shredded upon arrival at her security office.”
“Then why are you here?!” Victor yelled, pressing his face against the glass.
Marcus pulled a single sheet of paper from the folder and held it up against the glass.
It was a printout from a global news website:
CLARA AMES FOUNDATION EXPANDS TO TEN STATES; MAYA AMES NAMED WOMAN OF THE YEAR.
Below the headline was a large, gorgeous photograph of me standing on a stage in New York City, wearing a stunning emerald green gown, holding a smiling three-year-old Clara in my arms, flanked by Uncle Richard and a thriving community of survivors.
“I am here to deliver a final message from Ms. Ames,” Marcus said, his voice dropping into a hard, immutable steel. “She wanted you to see this picture so you know exactly how her life turned out.”
Victor stared at the photo, at the radiant, glowing smile on my face, and at the beautiful, healthy little girl who carried none of his bloodline, none of his surname, and none of his shadow.
“She wanted you to know,” Marcus continued, “that while you spend the next thirty-two years staring at concrete walls, the daughter you tried to destroy is growing up surrounded by millions, light, and unconditional love.”
May you like
Marcus hung up the receiver, picked up his folder, and walked out of the room without looking back.
Victor dropped the telephone, slamming his fists against the glass, screaming my name into the empty room until the prison guards dragged him back into the dark.
