Chapter 18 - The Visitor in Terre HauteThe federal penitentiary in Terre Haute, Indiana, was a fortress of grey concrete, razor wire, and cold, fluorescent lighting that hummed with a low, oppressive frequency.
Julian walked down the sterile, echoing corridor flanked by two armed federal correctional officers, their boots striking the linoleum in a rhythmic, unforgiving march.
He was escorted into a small, windowless visitation booth divided down the center by a thick slab of reinforced safety glass.
A moment later, a heavy metal door on the opposite side creaked open.
Victoria Vance stepped into the booth. The elegant, ice-blonde society woman who had once ruled the drawing rooms of Oakridge Manor was entirely gone. In her place stood a broken inmate wearing a coarse orange jumpsuit, her hair cropped short and dull, her face etched with deep, hollow lines of irreversible defeat.
She sat down heavily on the metal stool, picked up the heavy plastic telephone receiver, and stared through the glass at Julian.
Julian remained standing. He slowly picked up his own receiver, pressing it against his ear, but he didn't speak. He simply let his cold, sea-green eyes lock onto hers.
Victoria’s lips trembled. She raised the receiver, her hand shaking violently.
"You came," Victoria whispered through the audio speaker, her voice raspy and stripped of its former aristocratic lilt.
"You wanted to talk, Victoria," Julian said, his voice terrifyingly calm, devoid of anger or pity. "You have ten minutes. Start talking."
Victoria let out a dry, rattling laugh that sounded like dead leaves scraping across concrete. "You think I'm lying, don't you? You think this is just a pathetic attempt to see you squirm before I spend the next thirty years staring at these walls."
"Aren't you?" Julian asked, his gaze unyielding.
Victoria leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the glass divider, her eyes wide and manic. "My mother lied to me, Harrison. And her sister lied to both of us. The Panama accounts, the forged proxy keys, the setup at Blackwood Bay... those were just symptoms."
Julian’s eyes narrowed slightly. "What are you talking about?"
"Look deeper into your father’s shipping ledgers from 1982," Victoria hissed, her voice dropping into an urgent, conspiratorial whisper. "The night my uncle died in that 'accidental' warehouse fire before he could testify against Arthur Sterling... it wasn't an accident, Harrison. Your father didn't just build this empire on shipping lines and steel. He built it on a body count. And the people who helped him bury those secrets? They're still sitting on your corporate board."
Julian stared at her for a long, silent moment. The air in the visitation booth felt thick, heavy with the weight of decades of buried darkness.
He lowered his receiver, placing it gently back onto the cradle, never breaking eye contact with the woman who had tried to destroy his family.
May you like
Victoria pressed her face against the glass, screaming something soundless through the speaker as the correctional officers stepped forward, grabbing her arms and hauling her backward into the shadows.
Julian turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
