Chapter 13: The Deposition
The parole board convened in a drab, fluorescent-lit administrative building fifty miles from our home. It smelled of stale coffee, floor wax, and institutional apathy.
Detective Marlow, now a Captain with silver hair and the same piercing gaze, met us in the lobby. She hugged Emily tightly, shook my hand, and gave Noah a respectful nod. Because of their age, the twins were not allowed in the actual hearing room, but they sat in the waiting area with Noah, who promised to play interference with any press that might have caught wind of the hearing.
"She’s got a new legal team," Marlow warned us in a hushed tone. "High-priced. They’re spinning a narrative of rehabilitation. They’ve got psychological evaluations claiming she suffered from a severe, untreated maternal psychosis at the time."
"Psychosis," I repeated, tasting the bitterness of the word. "She orchestrated an international fraud ring and imprisoned a woman. That’s not a breakdown. That’s a business plan."
"I know," Marlow said grimly. "Just stick to your statements. Don't let her bait you."
The heavy wooden doors opened. A bailiff called our names.
Emily and I walked into the room. Three parole board members sat behind a long folding table. And to their left, sitting beside a man in a thousand-dollar suit, was Victoria.
My breath hitched.
Twelve years in a federal facility had stripped away the glossy veneer, but not the architecture beneath it. Her hair was pulled back into a severe, graying knot. She wore a standard-issue jumpsuit, but she sat with the posture of a queen holding court in exile.
When she saw us, her eyes locked onto mine.
There was no remorse. There was no hesitation. There was only a cold, calculating assessment. She looked at Emily next, and for a fraction of a second, her upper lip curled into a microscopic sneer.
She hasn't changed, I thought. Not one bit.
The lead board member, a tired-looking man named Henderson, cleared his throat. "We are here to consider the parole application for Inmate 84722, Victoria Cole. We will hear from the inmate's counsel first."
Victoria's lawyer stood. He spoke for twenty minutes, weaving a tragic tale of a woman driven mad by infertility, a woman who had spent twelve years in intensive therapy, a woman who now led a Bible study in the prison and had earned a master's degree via correspondence. He painted a picture of a rehabilitated citizen ready to contribute to society.
"Mrs. Cole is not a threat," the lawyer concluded smoothly. "She was a victim of her own biological desperation."
Henderson nodded, taking a note. Then he looked at us. "Mr. Cole. Ms. Hayes. You submitted written statements, but I understand you wish to speak on the record?"
Emily stood up. She didn't look at the board. She turned her body just enough to look directly at Victoria.
"My name is Emily Hayes," she said, her voice ringing clear and steady in the cramped room. "Twelve years ago, that woman tied me to a bed and planned to steal my children. She didn't do it because she was desperate. She did it because she believed she was entitled to whatever she could afford."
Victoria’s expression remained blank, a perfect mask of polite attention.
"Her lawyer calls it biological desperation," Emily continued. "But true mothers do not use sick children as leverage. True mothers do not buy other humans to use as incubators and discard them when they become inconvenient. Victoria Cole is not sorry for what she did. She is only sorry that she was caught."
Emily placed her hands on the table, leaning forward slightly. "If you let her out, she will not use a gun or a knife to hurt people. She will use her money, her charm, and her complete lack of empathy. She is a predator who hunts in waiting rooms and fertility clinics. Keep her in the cage she earned."
Emily sat down. The silence in the room was absolute.
Henderson looked at me. "Mr. Cole?"
I stood. I didn't need a speech. I looked at the woman I had once promised to love, the woman whose darkness I had been blind to.
"When she was arrested," I said quietly, "she told me that men like me always miss women who know how to make the world admire them."
May you like
Victoria’s eyes narrowed.
"I don't miss her," I said. "And the world does not admire her. The world has forgotten her. The only thing keeping her memory alive is the damage she caused, and we have spent twelve years repairing it. Do not give her the opportunity to break anything else."
