Chapter 6 - A Cold Visit to the Past
A week before Trevor was transferred to the state penitentiary to begin his eight-year sentence, I received an official request from his public defense lawyer.
Trevor had begged for one final fifteen-minute visitation meeting with me.
Evelyn advised me against going. "You don't owe him anything, Clara. You never have to see his face again."
I looked at my reflection in the hallway mirror. My short, elegant haircut framed my face beautifully, hiding the tiny, faint scar along my jawline—a scar that no longer represented pain, but my ultimate triumph.
"I want to go," I said calmly. "I want him to see me one last time."
An hour later, I sat behind a clear acrylic glass partition in the visitor room of the county correctional facility.
The heavy steel door opened, and Trevor was brought in by a guard.
He looked unrecognizable. He wore a coarse gray prison uniform. His head was shaved, his skin was pale and covered in stress rashes, and his posture was completely broken.
He sat down heavily on the stool across from me, picking up the yellow plastic phone receiver with trembling, handcuffed hands.
I picked up my phone receiver and held it to my ear.
"Clara..." Trevor rasped, his voice cracking instantly. Tears filled his hollow eyes. "Thank God you came... thank God..."
"You have ten minutes, Trevor," I said, my voice smooth, calm, and distant. "What do you want?"
"Clara, please... you have to help me," he begged, leaning his forehead against the cold glass. "The state prison... it's terrible, Clara! I won't survive five years in there! Please, talk to the prosecutor! Tell them you forgive me! Tell them I've paid my debt!"
I looked at him through the glass, feeling neither anger nor hatred—only a quiet, profound pity for a man who had destroyed his own life out of greed.
"Do you remember what you said to me in our kitchen, Trevor?" I asked softly. "While coffee was burning my skin and I was screaming in pain?"
Trevor sobbed, shaking his head. "I was crazy! I was stressed about the debts! I didn't mean it!"
"You pointed to the door," I reminded him, every word dripping with absolute clarity. "And you said: 'You either obey, or you leave.'"
Trevor closed his eyes, fresh tears streaming down his face.
"I didn't obey, Trevor," I said gently. "And I didn't just leave. I reclaimed my life. I reclaimed my grandmother's legacy. And I locked the door behind me."
"Clara, please..." he whispered, pressing his hands against the acrylic divider. "What am I supposed to do now? I have nothing left... my mother is living in a shelter... Paige hates me... I have nothing..."
"You have eight years to think about what you did," I said.
I gently hung up the plastic phone receiver, stood up, smoothed my ivory coat, and turned away.
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"Clara! CLARA! DON'T LEAVE ME!" Trevor screamed behind the glass, his voice muffled as the guards grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back into the shadows of the cellblock.
I walked out of the prison doors into the crisp afternoon air, taking a deep, refreshing breath of freedom.
