Chapter 5 - The Prison VisitTwo weeks later, inside the maximum-security visitation wing of the Hennepin County Correctional Facility, the air smelled of industrial bleach, cold iron, and stale sweat.
Sitting behind a heavy panel of reinforced bulletproof glass was Kieran Abernathy.
He looked completely unrecognizable. The polished, handsome CEO in the tailored charcoal suit was gone. In his place sat a hollowed-out, broken man wearing a coarse orange institutional jumpsuit, his wrists bound in heavy steel handcuffs attached to a waist chain. His hair was messy, dark purple circles carved deep beneath his bloodshot eyes, his skin covered in rough stubble.
Sitting across from him on the visitor stool, wearing an immaculate white wool coat and trousers, her dark hair falling softly over her shoulders, was me.
I held the acoustic phone receiver to my ear, looking at him with a calm, weightless peace.
Kieran grabbed his receiver with both trembling hands, pressing his face close to the glass, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime on his cheekbones.
"Freya...!" Kieran wept franticly, his voice cracking into sharp, pathetic pieces through the small speaker. "Freya, thank God you came! Please... you have to talk to the prosecutor! They're offering my mother and me thirty years without parole, Freya! Thirty years!"
I looked at him calmly, my posture relaxed.
"You came into my home two weeks ago, Kieran," I said softly through the receiver. "You smashed my coffee table, destroyed my laptop, and told me I 'should have let it go.'"
"I was crazy! I was panicked!" Kieran shrieked, slamming his forehead against the glass. "My mother pressured me! She told me you were weak! She told me you would never fight back! I loved you, Freya! I still love you!"
"You didn't love me, Kieran," I corrected deadpan, my voice smooth and razor-sharp. "You loved my quietness. You loved having a wife who paid your mother's bills while you pretended to be a self-made billionaire."
Kieran stumbled back against his chair, his hands shaking violently against the counter. "Freya... please... think of what we had! Eight years! You can't let us rot in prison!"
A cold, dry smile touched my lips.
"I won't be thinking about you at all, Kieran," I whispered softly near the receiver. "Because tomorrow morning, the first pediatric wing built by the Lindqvist Foundation opens downtown."
I picked up a printed copy of the foundation's new charter, pressing it flat against the bulletproof glass—showing the bold gold header: THE LINDQVIST PEDIATRIC HEALTH CENTER — FREYA LINDQVIST, CHAIRWOMAN.
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Kieran stared at the document, his chest heaving in wild, shallow gasps, a loud, sobbing shriek escaping his throat as he realized that his life, his money, and his family name were gone forever behind iron bars.
I set the phone receiver back onto its brass hook, stood up smoothly from the stool, and turned my back on him forever as two corrections officers dragged his crying, broken frame back into the dark corridors of the prison.
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