Chapter 8 - THE PRISONER'S ECHO
Two years after the trial.
Inside the Federal Correctional Institution in Terre Haute, Indiana, the days were long, grey, and completely monotonous.
Kyle Whitmore sat on a narrow metal bench in the prison library, wearing a dark green inmate uniform marked with his federal registration number: Inmate #88492.
His daily job was stacking library books and mopping the cafeteria floors for twelve cents an hour. His physical health had deteriorated; his once-perfect hair was thin and grey at the temples, his posture hunched, and his hands calloused and rough.
He pulled a folded newspaper clipping from his pocket—a page he had secretly cut out from a copy of The Wall Street Journal three weeks ago.
The headline read:
CALDER DOMINION OPENS $200M ISABELLA CALDER CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL IN CHICAGO; ANNOUNCES ENGAGEMENT TO ARCHITECT JULIAN MERCER.
Below the headline was a large, beautiful color photograph of me standing on the sunny hospital lawn, wearing a stunning white dress, laughing happily beside Julian Mercer, who was holding my hand gently. I looked radiant, healthy, powerful, and deeply loved.
Kyle’s thumb trembled as he traced the outline of my face in the newsprint.
"Inmate Whitmore!" a guard's loud voice barked from the library doorway. "Put the paper away and get back to your cleaning detail!"
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Kyle quickly folded the clipping, hiding it inside his pocket as he stood up, picking up his rusty mop and bucket.
He walked out into the cold concrete hallway, listening to the heavy iron doors echoing through the cellblock, knowing that while the woman he had abused was building a glorious legacy in the sunshine, he would spend the next two decades sweeping dust in the dark.
