Chapter 20: Cold Concrete
FCI Sheridan was a sprawling complex of concrete, razor wire, and guard towers, nestled bleakly in the Oregon countryside. The visitor’s room was sterile and loud, echoing with the forced conversations of inmates and their families.
Harry sat at a small, bolted-down metal table, his posture impeccably straight despite the grim surroundings. He wore a simple gray suit, devoid of the flashy accessories of his corporate past, but he still radiated an unmistakable aura of authority.
A heavy steel door opened, and a guard escorted Arthur into the room.
Harry barely recognized him. The tailored suits and expensive haircuts were gone, replaced by an ill-fitting khaki uniform. Arthur had lost at least twenty pounds, his face gaunt and shadowed with dark circles. He looked fragile, stripped of the unearned arrogance that had defined his entire life.
Arthur sat down across from Harry, his hands trembling slightly as he folded them on the table. He looked down, unable to meet his uncle’s eyes.
"You came," Arthur said, his voice raspy.
"I received your letter," Harry replied, his tone perfectly neutral. It wasn't cruel, but it wasn't warm. It was the tone of a businessman concluding a final transaction.
Arthur finally looked up, his eyes glassy. "I meant every word, Harry. I'm so sorry. I wake up every night seeing the blood on the stairs. I see Beatrice’s face. I hate her. But I hate myself more."
"You should," Harry said simply. "You traded your soul for a bank account, Arthur. You stood by while your wife tried to murder a pregnant woman. Apologies don't erase that."
"I know," Arthur whispered, a tear spilling over his eyelashes. "I just... I have nobody, Harry. My "friends" won't take my calls. My lawyer dropped me the second the retainer ran out. Beatrice is gone. I'm terrified in here."
Harry looked at the broken man across from him. A younger, more ruthless version of Harry might have twisted the knife, reveling in Arthur’s misery. But Harry had spent the last two years learning how to build, not how to destroy.
"You made your choices, Arthur, and now you must live in the house you built," Harry said, his voice quiet but firm. "I am not your lifeline. I am not your family anymore. You lost that privilege."
Arthur sobbed quietly, nodding his head. He knew it was the truth.
"However," Harry continued, reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out a small slip of paper, sliding it across the table. "I am not a monster. I have set up a trust through a third-party attorney. It will deposit a modest sum into your commissary account on the first of every month. It’s enough to buy decent soap, extra food, and phone cards. It will continue for the duration of your ten-year sentence, and it will give you a small stipend when you are released to help you get on your feet."
Arthur stared at the piece of paper, completely stunned. "Why?" he choked out. "After everything I did to you... why would you help me?"
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"I'm not doing it for you," Harry said, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket. "I'm doing it for me. I refuse to carry the weight of your suffering into my new life. This is the last time you will ever see me, Arthur. The next time you write to my home, the letter will be returned unopened. Goodbye."
Harry didn't wait for a response. He turned and walked out of the visitor's room, the heavy steel door clicking shut behind him. As he walked out into the crisp Oregon air and got into his waiting car, he felt a profound, incredible lightness in his chest. The past was finally dead and buried.
