CHAPTER 8: BEHIND GLASS
A week later, I visited the federal holding facility in downtown Chicago.
I sat behind the thick plexiglass partition, holding the intercom phone to my ear. On the other side sat Julian, wearing an orange jumpsuit, his hair unwashed, his wrists bound in steel cuffs.
"Clara... please," Julian whimpered into his phone, his eyes red and swollen. "You have to help me. I didn't know about Uncle Arthur's poisoning! My mother forced me to sign those ledgers! I loved you!"
I looked at him, feeling no anger, no heartbreak—only a profound, cold clarity.
"You laughed when she pushed me into that bowl, Julian," I said softly into the receiver. "You watched her humiliate me for months while you stole my inheritance. You didn't love me. You loved the idea of a quiet victim."
"Clara, please!" he begged, pressing his bound hands against the glass. "I'm facing twenty-five years!"
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"Then I suggest you use that time to learn how to sit like a gentleman," I replied calmly.
I hung up the receiver, stood up, and walked away without looking back.
