Chapter 6 - THE PRISON CELLTwo weeks later, the maximum-security holding facility in Queens was cold, gray, and smelled perpetually of bleach and despair.
When the heavy steel door buzzed open, Margaret Cole sat behind the reinforced glass partition.
Her designer black silk suit was gone, replaced by a coarse orange jumpsuit. Her hair, usually coiffed to absolute perfection, hung limp and unwashed around her hollow cheeks. The arrogant matriarch who had laughed while shoving my wheelchair onto a chapel floor was completely gone.
When she saw me walk into the visitation booth, her eyes widened with manic fury. She leaped from her stool, slamming her cuffed hands against the thick glass.
"You!" she shrieked, her voice muffled by the acoustic barrier. She grabbed the wall phone, and a second later, my handset buzzed.
I picked it up slowly, holding her desperate gaze through the glass.
"Drop the charges!" Margaret screamed into her receiver, spittle flying against the partition. "I am a Cole! You can't do this to me!"
"The Cole dynasty ended the moment you tried to murder your own son for pocket change, Margaret," I replied, my voice dangerously calm. "You are facing life without parole for first-degree murder conspiracy."
Margaret’s face twisted into a mask of pure terror. The fierce, arrogant predator dissolved into a pathetic, whimpering prisoner.
"Please," she begged, her voice cracking into high-pitched sobs. "We're family! I'll give you everything back—"
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"You never had anything to give," I interrupted softly. "You were just a squatter in a life I built."
I hung up the phone, ignoring her hysterical, muffled screams, and turned around.
