Chapter 7 - The Confrontation Behind Glass — "He Begged Me For A Visitation. I Brought His Divorce Papers and a Pen!"
Two weeks later, I visited the county jail.
The visitation room smelled of bleach and old sweat. I sat behind the thick glass partition, waiting.
When the door on the other side opened, Mark walked in wearing a bright orange jumpsuit. His hands were cuffed to his waist. His head was shaved, and he had a dark bruise under his left eye—likely a souvenir from his first week in holding.
He sat down heavily and picked up the black telephone receiver.
I picked up mine.
"Rachel," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Thank you for coming. Please... you have to talk to the prosecutor. They're offering me a twelve-year plea deal. I can't do twelve years, Rachel. I’ll die in here. Please, tell them I’m a good man. Tell them it was all Sarah's idea."
"It’s funny, Mark," I said, my voice echoing slightly in the receiver. "You spent twelve years making me feel like I was the crazy one. You made me feel like I was lucky to have you. But sitting here, looking at you in that jumpsuit... I realize you were the small one all along."
"I made a mistake!" he sobbed, pressing his forehead against the glass. "I was stupid! I wanted to feel young again! Chloe manipulated me! Please, Rachel, we can start over. When I get out, we can rebuild. I still love you."
I felt a sudden, beautiful wave of laughter bubble up in my throat. I couldn't help it. I laughed out loud, the sound clean and free.
"Love me?" I asked. "Mark, you don't even know what that word means."
I reached into my bag and pulled out a single sheet of paper, pressing it flat against the glass so he could read it.
It was the final divorce decree.
"I brought you a present," I said. "The guard outside has a pen. You are going to sign these papers today, Mark. You are going to sign over the house, the remaining bank accounts, and every single cent of your future earnings to pay back my father’s trust."
"And if I don't?" he sneered, a tiny spark of his old defiance flickering. "You can't force me to sign."
"If you don't sign," I said smoothly, "my lawyer will present the court with the secondary set of financial records we found in your office safe. The ones detailing your tax evasion from 2021. That will add another eight years to your sentence. Do you want to gamble on that, Mark?"
He stared at me, his jaw slack, realizing he had absolutely no cards left to play.
Slowly, he nodded.
"I’ll sign," he whispered.
May you like
"Good boy," I said.
I hung up the phone, stood up, and walked out of the room without looking back.
