Chapter 6 - The Visitor's Glass
The County Holding Facility was an austere grey concrete complex located on the industrial outskirts of the city. It smelled of industrial disinfectant, cold metal, and stale air—a stark contrast to the grand cathedral where Grant had stood weeks before.
I sat on a wooden stool behind a thick panel of bulletproof glass in the private visitation room. I was dressed in a tailored cream coat—the exact shade Tessa had worn to my funeral—with my hair styled effortlessly and my grandfather’s gold signet ring on my finger.
The heavy steel door on the opposite side of the glass clicked open.
A guard ushered Grant into the booth.
He looked unrecognizable. He was wearing an oversized orange jump suit, his hands secured by heavy steel handcuffs connected to a belly chain. His dark hair was unwashed, standing up in messy tufts, and dark, hollow circles shadowed his sunken eyes. His cheeks were covered in rough stubble, and his hands shook violently as the guard forced him into the metal chair.
Grant picked up the plastic telephone receiver with trembling fingers.
I picked up mine, holding it calmly against my ear.
"Claire," Grant rasped into the receiver. His voice was raw, cracked, and completely stripped of the resonant authority he had cultivated for a decade. "Claire... thank God you came. You have to help me."
I didn't answer. I simply looked at him through the thick glass with cool, unblinking eyes.
"Listen to me," Grant babbled frantically, leaning his forehead almost against the glass. "It was Tessa! She was the one who came up with the idea! She brought the drugs from the clinic! She told me you were going to die anyway, that the cancer was going to take you regardless! She manipulated me, Claire! She threatened to expose my offshore accounts if I didn't go along with it!"
I listened to him throw his mistress under the bus without a single hint of hesitation. It was astonishing how quickly a man who believed he was an invincible genius turned into a coward when faced with accountability.
"Grant," I said, my voice smooth and crystal clear through the line. "Do you know what today is?"
He blinked, bewildered by the question. "What? No... what are you talking about?"
"Today is our eleventh wedding anniversary," I said softly.
Grant froze, his mouth slightly open, his eyes wide with a sudden, painful memory.
"Eleven years ago today," I continued, "we stood in that little wooden chapel in Maine. You looked me in the eye and swore before God and my father that you would protect me, honor me, and cherish me until death did us part."
"Claire... I'm sorry," he sobbed, tears spilling down his hollow cheeks, smearing against his face. "I was weak! I was foolish! But I still love you! Deep down, I never stopped loving you! Please, talk to Brenner! Tell the prosecutor to drop the attempted murder charge! I'll sign over everything! I'll give up every stock option, every house, every cent! Just don't let them leave me in here!"
I leaned forward slightly, resting my elbow on the wooden ledge beneath the glass.
"When I was laying in that hospital bed, Grant," I whispered into the receiver, "when the poison was making my bones ache and my vision go dark, I used to lie awake at night praying that you would come in, sit beside me, and hold my hand. I thought if I just fought hard enough, if I was sweet enough, you would remember who we used to be."
I smiled—a small, cold, terrible smile.
"But then I realized something. You didn't love me, Grant. You loved the idea of taking what my father built. You loved the status, the money, and the power. And when I got sick, you saw an opportunity to get rid of the owner while keeping the estate."
"No! That's not true!" he screamed into the phone, slamming his handcuffed fists against the glass shelf. "Claire, please!"
"The funeral was beautiful, by the way," I said quietly. "The lilies were a nice touch. But you made one critical error, Grant."
"What?" he sobbed.
"You thought my story ended when you closed the lid," I said. "In reality, it was just the beginning of yours."
May you like
I placed the phone receiver back onto its wall cradle, stood up smoothly, and smoothed down the front of my cream coat.
Grant began screaming into his phone, beating his cuffed hands frantically against the bulletproof glass, his face twisted in absolute horror as I turned my back on him and walked out of the room without looking back once.
