Chapter 8 - The Visitor
A month before my departure for London, I received a request that took me entirely by surprise.
It came via a formal letter from the women’s correction facility where Savannah was being held on pre-trial detention, having failed to post her reduced bail.
She wanted to see me.
My first instinct was to burn the letter and ignore it. But a lingering sense of duty—or perhaps a desire to close every single loose thread of my old life—compelled me to accept.
The visiting room at the facility was cold, smelling of industrial bleach and cheap floor wax. I sat at a stainless steel table, waiting under the dim fluorescent lights.
A few minutes later, the heavy metal door clicked open, and Savannah was led inside by a female guard.
She looked unrecognizable.
Her long, glamorous blonde hair was pulled back into a messy, dull ponytail. She wore a loose, grey prison-issue jumpsuit that barely concealed her swollen belly. There was no makeup, no designer jewelry, no smug, triumphant smile.
She looked small, exhausted, and utterly broken.
She sat down across from me, her eyes fixed on the metallic surface of the table.
"Thank you for coming," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Why did you ask to see me, Savannah?" I asked quietly.
Savannah swallowed hard, her hands trembling as she folded them over her stomach. "I... I wanted to say I'm sorry."
I stared at her, caught off guard by the sincerity in her tone. "Savannah, you don't need to apologize to me."
"Yes, I do," she choked out, tears pooling in her hollow eyes. "I thought... I thought I was winning. I thought Grant was this amazing, wealthy prince who was giving me everything I ever dreamed of. I was so jealous of you. You had the money, the class, the respect. I wanted to hurt you because I wanted to feel powerful."
She wiped a tear away with the sleeve of her coarse jumpsuit.
"He lied to me about everything, Claire," she continued, her voice trembling. "He told me you were cold, that you hated kids, that you were taking all his money and keeping him hostage. I believed him. I was an idiot, but I believed him."
"Grant is a master manipulator," I said softly. "He spent seven years convincing me I couldn't survive without him either."
Savannah looked up, her bloodshot eyes searching my face. "They’re going to take my baby when he’s born, aren't they?"
"Not permanently, if you cooperate with the prosecutors," I said. "Marcus told me if you enter a guilty plea on the misdemeanor obstruction charge and complete probation, you can retain custody."
Savannah sniffled, nodding slowly. "I have no money for a lawyer. My family... they stopped taking my calls after the news broke."
I looked at this girl—a girl who had tried to humiliate me in a public store, who had sent me taunting texts, who had tried to steal my life—and I felt no satisfaction in her ruin. Only sadness for the child she was bringing into the world.
I reached into my bag, pulled out a business card, and slid it across the table toward her.
"What's this?" she asked.
"It's the contact information for Sarah Jenkins," I said. "She’s a top family law attorney who specializes in court-appointed defense for young mothers. I have already retained her services on your behalf. She will handle your custody hearing and your plea deal."
Savannah stared at the card, then looked up at me in utter shock. "Why... why would you do that for me? After what I did to you?"
"I'm not doing it for you, Savannah," I said gently, standing up from the chair. "I'm doing it for the baby. That child didn't ask for a criminal father or a foolish mother. He deserves a fair chance."
I turned and walked toward the exit door, stopping only when Savannah called out behind me:
"Claire!"
I looked back over my shoulder.
May you like
"Thank you," she sobbed, holding the card tightly against her chest.
I gave her a subtle nod and stepped through the door.
