Chapter 9 - The Meeting at the Holding Cell
Thursday afternoon, Helena found herself walking down the harshly lit, sterile corridors of the Multnomah County Detention Center. The heavy metal doors echoed with every step, a stark contrast to the quiet, creative hum of her design studio.
A guard led her into a small, private visitation booth divided by a thick pane of scratched safety glass.
A moment later, a side door opened, and Simon was escorted in.
He looked unrecognizable. The crisp charcoal suit from the Marlowe Theater was gone, replaced by an orange jumpsuit that hung loosely around his broad shoulders. His dark hair was unstyled, falling unkempt across his forehead, and the famous crescent scar near his temple stood out starkly against his pale, sunken skin.
He sat down heavily on the metal stool, picked up the heavy plastic telephone receiver, and stared through the glass at Helena.
Helena picked up her receiver, matching his gaze through the smudged plastic separator.
"You came," Simon whispered, his voice tinny and strained through the speaker.
"I received your letter," Helena said, her tone devoid of anger, sarcasm, or warmth. It was the tone one might use to address a stranger at a bus stop.
Simon’s eyes welled with sudden, genuine tears—or perhaps just the pathetic self-pity of a man whose house of cards had finally collapsed. "Hel... I’m so sorry. I lost my mind. The pressure of the business, the contracts... I thought I could manage both worlds. I thought I was invincible."
"You weren't invincible, Simon," Helena replied evenly. "You were just careless. You thought you could rewrite reality because you were used to altering blueprints when clients weren't looking."
"Can we fix this?" he pleaded, slamming his palm softly against the glass. "Please. Vance says you hold the keys to the asset release. If you sign, the D.A. will drop the grand larceny charges. I won't have to do prison time, Hel. We can sell everything, move out of Oregon, start over somewhere else. Just the two of us."
Helena looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time since he had kissed her goodbye by the pantry on Tuesday morning. She saw the fear, the desperation, and the total lack of genuine remorse for anyone other than himself.
"There is no 'us,' Simon," she said quietly. "There hasn't been for two years. You killed that marriage the moment you walked out of our house and into another woman's life while pretending to inspect hotels in Boise."
"Helena—"
"I signed the transfer papers this morning," she continued, her voice steady as a rock. "Bellamy Construction is dissolved. All remaining assets are being liquidated into the historic preservation trust. You are going to plead guilty, you are going to take your sentence, and you are never, ever going to contact me again."
Simon’s face crumpled entirely. The last vestige of his charm, his smooth corporate swagger, vanished completely into the sterile gray light of the cell.
May you like
Helena hung up the phone receiver, placed it gently back on its cradle, and stood up.
She turned around and walked out of the visitation room, leaving him behind the glass, staring into an empty, silent room of his own making.
