Chapter 14 - The Cell of Silver
In the maximum-security wing of the Bedford State Women's Correctional Facility, the air was thick with the smell of floor wax and stale cabbage.
Victoria Vance sat at a small stainless-steel table in the visitation room.
She wore an oversized orange jumpsuit made of rough, coarse cotton that scratched her skin. Her hair—once perfectly styled into soft, golden waves—was pulled back into a tight, messy bun, streaks of white grey showing clearly at her temples. Her manicured nails were gone, clipped short and plain.
Across the thick plexiglass divider sat Dr. Harrison Thorne, wearing a matching orange jumpsuit, his right arm supported by a black medical sling.
"The trustee finalized the sale of the estate this morning," Thorne said through the small brass intercom grid. His voice was hollow, defeated. "Julian didn't keep a single dollar from the real estate portfolio. He donated St. Jude's to the State Forestry Department. They're tearing the house down next month to turn the land into a public park."
Victoria stared at her reflection in the scratched plexiglass.
"He stood," she whispered. Her voice was flat, devoid of anger, echoing with a strange, terrifying obsession that prison had not cured. "He stood right on the dance floor. Everyone saw him."
"Victoria, stop," Thorne pleaded quietly. "It's over. We're facing thirty years. The Johns Hopkins medical report was published in the Journal of Neurology last week. They used Julian’s case file as the definitive study on chemical neuro-suppression recovery."
"He was my boy," Victoria murmured, her fingers tracing a small scratch on the stainless-steel table. "He was so safe in that chair. No one could hurt him. No one could take him away from me."
She looked up at Thorne, her pale blue eyes wider than usual, glowing with a feverish, insane light.
"Do you think he misses his room, Harrison?" she asked softly. "Do you think he misses his bed?"
Thorne didn't answer. He looked away, unable to bear the sight of her madness.
A heavy steel door slammed open at the back of the room.
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"Vance! Thorne!" a guard barked. "Visitation time is over. Back to your cells."
Victoria stood up slowly. Her orange jumpsuit sagged around her hips. As she walked back toward the steel corridor, her feet dragged against the concrete floor with a slow, heavy, rhythmic scraping sound—the sound of a woman who would never walk free again.
