Chapter 9 - The Visitor at FCI Waseca
Two months later. January in Minnesota.
The snow lay deep and blinding across the flat plains surrounding the Federal Correctional Institution in Waseca, Minnesota—a low-security federal prison facility.
I sat in the sterile, windowless visitor room, wearing a simple dark wool coat and a cream scarf. I sat behind a laminate wooden table, holding a warm paper cup of green tea.
A minute later, the heavy metal door opened.
Brittany was led into the room by a female correctional officer. She was wearing a loose, olive-drab inmate uniform bearing her register number stamped over the left chest. Her hair had been cut short, her fingernails unpainted, her posture completely broken.
She sat down across the table from me, resting her chapped hands on the cold wood.
“You came,” Brittany rasped, her voice dry and thin. “Why did you come here, Margaret? To gloat? To watch me sit in a khaki jumpsuit?”
“I didn't come to gloat, Brittany,” I replied smoothly. “I came to deliver a message from Ethan.”
Brittany’s eyes flicked up, a pathetic, desperate spark lighting her pale face. “Ethan? Did he... did he send a letter? Is he going to visit me?”
I reached into my handbag, pulled out a thin white envelope, and set it flat on the table between us.
Inside sat a certified copy of the final, non-appealable Decree of Dissolution of Marriage issued by the Cook County Circuit Court, alongside an injunction barring her from ever contacting Ethan or the Wilson family upon her release in 2042.
“Ethan has moved forward with his life, Brittany,” I said coldly. “His business is solvent, his heart is healing, and his home is quiet. He does not wish to see you, write to you, or hear your name ever again.”
Brittany stared at the white envelope as if it were a slab of lead. Tears began to trace wet lines through the dust on her cheeks.
“I had everything, Margaret...” Brittany whimpered, her hands trembling on the table. “I was living in a two-million-dollar house... I had a good husband... Why did I do this?”
I looked at her through the cold air of the visiting room, feeling no anger, no hatred, and no lingering pain.
“You did it because you believed that deceit is a shortcut to power, Brittany,” I told her, standing up from my chair and pulling my coat tight around my shoulders. “You believed that a quiet, older woman was an easy victim. You forgot that some homes are built on foundations you cannot break.”
May you like
I picked up my handbag, turned my back on her weeping frame, and walked out of the visitor room without looking back once.
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