Chapter 9 - Ghosts of the Past
Two years after the trial.
Inside the high-security visitor hall of Sterling Correctional Facility, Ryan Vance sat behind a thick acrylic partition.
His expensive clothes were gone, replaced by a drab denim prison jumpsuit. His sleek hair was shaved short, his face weathered, lined with bitterness and regret. He spent his days working in the prison laundry room for eighty cents an hour—a far cry from his hundred-thousand-dollar quarterly corporate bonuses.
The visitor door opened, and his public defender, Mark Taylor, sat down on the other side of the glass.
"Did she sign the final severance papers?" Ryan asked, his voice flat, devoid of its former arrogance.
"Yes," Taylor replied, sliding a legal document against the glass. "Emma has officially completed the full legal severance. Your parental rights to Ethan have been permanently terminated by court order. His last name has been legally changed to Hayes."
Ryan stared at the paper. Ethan Hayes. His son no longer bore his name. To the world, Ryan Vance didn't exist as a father.
"Does... does she ever ask about me?" Ryan whispered, a rare flicker of raw vulnerability breaking through his defensive posture. "Does Ethan know who I am?"
"No, Ryan," Taylor said frankly. "She doesn't speak your name. Ethan knows Marcus as his father figure. They are happy. They are moving forward."
"Marcus..." Ryan spat the name with bitter irony, tears welling in his tired eyes. "My own brother took my life. My firm, my family, my house."
"Your brother saved your family from the tragedy you created," Taylor corrected sternly. "You threw your life away for a weekend in Aspen, Ryan. Nobody took it from you."
Taylor stood up, packing his briefcase. "This is our final meeting. Your appeals have all been exhausted. You have six more years to serve before your first parole review. I suggest you spend that time reflecting on your choices."
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As the lawyer walked away, Ryan sat alone in the dim visitation booth.
He looked at his hands—the hands that had once held an expensive Swiss watch and a glass of scotch while his wife bled on the carpet. The memory of her begging face—“Please... I think I need a hospital”—echoed in his head like a permanent curse that would follow him for the rest of his life.
