Chapter 8 - The Visitor's Room
The visitation room at the Cook County Department of Corrections was cold, sterile, and smelled faintly of industrial disinfectant and stale floor wax.
Patricia sat on the far side of a thick reinforced glass divider, wearing a bright orange jumpsuit that looked laughably grotesque against her pale, unpowdered skin. Her hair, usually styled into a perfect blonde helmet, was limp and silver at the roots. She looked twenty years older than she had two weeks ago.
I sat down on the metal stool across from her, picking up the small plastic telephone receiver.
Patricia picked up her receiver with trembling, handcuffed wrists.
“You came,” she whispered, her voice metallic and thin through the earpiece.
“You asked to see me, Patricia,” I said, keeping my tone polite, level, and entirely devoid of emotion.
Patricia stared at me through the glass. She searched my face, looking for cruelty, for triumph, for revenge—anything she could understand. But she found only the cool, professional stillness of a woman who had simply performed an accounting task.
“Why did you do it?” Patricia asked, her voice cracking with suppressed rage and confusion. “If you wanted money... if you wanted a bigger allowance... Daniel would have given it to you! I would have given it to you! You were married to my son! You were part of this family!”
I leaned slightly closer to the glass.
“I didn't want your money, Patricia,” I said softly. “And I was never part of your family. You made that abundantly clear the moment you threw that apron at my chest.”
Patricia swallowed hard, her eyes darting away for a second before returning to mine. “It was a test... I was just showing you how things work in high society!”
“No, Patricia,” I corrected her firmly. “It wasn't a test. It was an exhibition of cruelty. You thought because my parents didn't own a mansion in Lake Forest, I was weak. You thought because I was quiet, I was stupid. You looked at my background and saw a girl you could bully into submission.”
Patricia’s lips trembled. “You destroyed Daniel’s future... He had nothing to do with the Cayman accounts!”
“Daniel signed personal loan agreements pledging trust assets he didn't own,” I reminded her calmly. “He lied to me for eleven months about moving into our own home. He stood in that kitchen and laughed while you humiliated me. He wasn't an innocent victim, Patricia. He was your eager accomplice until the bill came due.”
Patricia lowered her head, heavy tears finally breaking through her posture and spilling down her wrinkled cheeks.
“What am I going to do, Evelyn?” she whimpered, looking up at me like a lost child. “I have nothing left... I don't even have a home.”
I looked at her for a long moment, remembering the proud, arrogant woman who had stood in that five-million-dollar kitchen, pouring black coffee from a silver carafe while firing a devoted employee of eleven years.
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“You'll learn to adapt, Patricia,” I said softly, setting the telephone receiver back onto its wall cradle. “After all... work builds character.”
I stood up, smoothed my jacket, and walked out of the visitation room without looking back.
