Chapter 8 - The Shadow in the Glass
Two years later.
The state correctional facility sat in a barren stretch of flat land forty miles outside the capital. Its high concrete walls were topped with coiled razor wire, casting long shadows over the gravel exercise yard.
Ethan Whitmore sat at a metal table inside the visitor room.
He wore a faded denim prison jumpsuit. His hair was shaved short, his face thin and drawn, his hands rough and calloused from his daily assignments in the prison laundry facility.
Across the thick plexiglass partition sat his defense attorney, Gregory Vance, holding a brief folder.
"The parole board reviewed your file yesterday, Ethan," Gregory said through the small speaker grill. "The answer is no."
Ethan didn't look surprised. He stared at his own hands resting on the cold steel table. "Why?"
"Your refusal to attend the mandatory domestic violence counseling sessions, along with two disciplinary write-offs for physical altercations in the cell block," Gregory said flatly. "You'll be serving the full three-year term. You have eight months remaining."
Ethan let out a hollow, bitter laugh. "Eight months. And then what, Gregory? I have no money. I have no license. My name is blacklisted across every financial institution in the country. My mother won't even take my calls from Florida."
"You made your choices, Ethan," Gregory said, showing no sympathy. "I'm only here to deliver your final legal correspondence."
Gregory pulled a single sheet of paper from his folder and pressed it against the glass.
It was a photograph printed from a local newspaper's business section.
The headline read: VANCE INDUSTRIAL LOGISTICS ANNOUNCES NEW FEMALE CEO: CLARA VANCE TAKES THE REINS OF MULTI-BILLION DOLLAR CONGLOMERATE.
In the photograph stood Clara, looking stunning in a tailored grey business suit, standing beside her father Robert at a podium inside a new industrial manufacturing center. Standing in front of them was a two-year-old girl with bright brown eyes and a joyful smile, holding a small bouquet of ribboned flowers.
Ethan stared at the image.
The girl in the photo was healthy, happy, and thriving. She was standing in a world of light, warmth, and absolute security—a world from which Ethan had been completely, permanently erased.
"She took over her father's company last month," Gregory said quietly. "They opened a new children's medical wing at St. Jude's Hospital yesterday, named the Evelyn Vance Pediatric Center."
Ethan touched his fingers to the cold glass, staring at the face of the daughter he would never know, the woman he had tried to break, and the father who had protected them both with the force of a mountain.
"She doesn't even remember me, does she?" Ethan whispered, his voice cracking.
"No," Gregory replied plainly, packing his files back into his briefcase. "To her, you don't exist. You never did."
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The guard tapped on the visitor room door. "Time's up, Whitmore. Back to the block."
Ethan stood up slowly, the iron shackles around his ankles clinking heavily against the concrete floor. He turned his back on the photograph and walked through the heavy steel door, disappearing into the dark corridor of the prison block.
