Chapter 9 - The Last Visitor
In October, precisely one year after the night of my thirty-fourth birthday, I received a formal request from the State Department of Corrections.
Arthur Vance had requested a private visitation at the regional medical prison facility in Columbus. He had been diagnosed with advanced cardiovascular disease and had been granted a temporary medical stay prior to his formal sentencing transfer.
Julian recommended I decline the request. "You owe him nothing, Flora. He’s looking for absolution."
"I know I owe him nothing," I told Julian. "That’s precisely why I’m going."
The following afternoon, I arrived at the medical facility.
The visitation room was simple—white cinderblock walls, a linoleum floor, and a long laminate table split by a low wooden divider.
Arthur Vance was brought in by two guards. He was sitting in a wheelchair, dressed in a faded grey uniform. His hair was completely white, his skin thin and papery, his hands trembling as he rested them on his knees.
When he looked up and saw me sitting across the table, he let out a long, ragged sigh.
"Flora," he rasped, his voice weak and thin.
"Arthur," I acknowledged, keeping my posture relaxed and composed.
He stared at me for a long minute, mapping the changes in my appearance—the confidence in my stance, the clarity in my eyes, the total absence of the quiet insecurity he had exploited for four years.
"I called you here..." Arthur began, pausing to catch his breath, "...because I needed to ask you a question before... before my time runs out."
"Ask," I said.
"Did you... did you plan this?" Arthur whispered, leaning forward slightly, his eyes burning with a desperate, confused curiosity. "Did you know from the beginning that my family would fall?"
I looked at the old man sitting before me—a man who had spent his entire life believing that everything in the world was a calculated move, a political trap, or a transaction of power.
"No, Arthur," I answered honestly. "I didn't plan anything."
Arthur frowned, confused. "Then how... how did you destroy thirty years of my work in less than thirty days?"
"I didn't destroy your work, Arthur," I told him quietly. "You built a house out of paper and cards. You cheated your workers, you lied on your taxes, you enabled your son’s cruelty, and you treated human beings like tools to be used and discarded."
I leaned closer to the wooden divider.
"Your family didn't fall because I was smart," I said softly. "You fell because you were hollow. All my brothers did was pull back the curtain so the world could see what was already broken inside your house."
Arthur slumped back into his wheelchair, his eyes dropping to his trembling hands. The sharp, aggressive pride that had defined Arthur Vance for sixty years finally vanished, leaving behind only an old, sick man facing the consequences of his choices.
"Isaac..." Arthur whispered, his voice shaking with genuine grief. "He won't survive ten years in Mansfield."
"Isaac made his choices, Arthur," I said, standing up from the chair and smoothing my jacket. "Just like you made yours."
I turned toward the exit door, signaling the guard to unlock the latch.
"Flora," Arthur called out one last time.
I stopped near the door, looking back over my shoulder.
"What... what are you going to do with the rest of our company?" he asked quietly.
May you like
"I’m going to use it to build things that last," I answered.
The guard opened the heavy steel door, and I stepped out into the bright, warm sunlight of the afternoon, leaving the last remnant of the Vance family behind in the dark room.
