Epilogue

Wednesday, August 28, 12:50 am

“I’m outside the building. Please watch for my text.”

Amber Bell hung up her phone and adjusted her glasses as she looked up at the strange building before her. It was a collection of large glass cylinders and spheres combined in an avant-garde design. Highly inefficient, incredibly expensive, and an eyesore if Amber were to be asked. Especially considering every other building in the immediate area was constructed in the mid-century modern design typical for this area—no doubt the vanity project of a mayor or other local politician hoping to make a name for themselves. A large piece of the building jutted off the side with a sign attached to it: Christoph Jarden Correctional and Rehabilitation Facility.

“Hm,” Amber said, her lips tightening as she stared at the sign. Hardly a prison, Christoph Jarden was more of an involuntary ‘Club Med’ for the wealthy, powerful, and influential who just so happened to get caught one too many times for the public’s liking. It had squash courts, comfortable beds, indoor butterfly gardens, and Michelin-quality cuisine. It was a chance for the wealthy to enjoy the finer things while appearing to pay the incurred debt for their crimes while padding the pockets of other wealthy individuals who invested in these facilities.

As she ascended the stairs, Amber approached the front door just as a police officer emerged and held the door open. “Ma’am,” he said, smiling at her.

The reaction was expected. Amber would never grace the cover of a lingerie magazine, but she was not unattractive. Her long, shimmering copper hair was one of her best physical features, and she wore it long, hanging straight down to the middle of her back. It was parted to the side, with long bangs tucked behind her ear. She wore a blouse that plunged just enough to tease a bit of cleavage—it was her second-best asset. Hip-hugging khaki pants were a final touch to show off the ripe curves of a middle-aged woman without breaking the image of professionalism. It was unfortunate that physical traits carried so much influence in modern society, but at the same time, they afforded Amber natural tools that man did not possess. She would never have men falling all over themselves for her, but occasionally bending over to allow a neckline to droop or wearing something form-fitting to show off a well-formed buttock had made for an occasional interesting outcome, and she wasn’t above using whatever tools she had to work with. It was practical, after all.

“Thank you, officer,” Amber said without looking at the man. She never entirely understood why so many people were so free with eye contact. Amber found such prolonged ocular intimacy ... off-putting.

The sound of her heels clacking on the floor echoed through the halls as she approached the metal detector and scanner standing between her and her quarry. A male officer was manning the scanner while a female and another male were waiting for her to approach. They both gave her tight-lipped smiles and nods.

“Morning,” the uniformed female said. “If you would, just place your bag on the belt. Place any keys, phone, rings ... all that goes in one of those trays.”

“Of course,” Amber said, complying. After emptying her pockets, she waited for someone to tell her to step through the metal detector. The female guard waved and said, “Ma’am, if you’d just step through here.”

Amber did so without setting off any alarms. The officer gave her a nod and stepped aside, gesturing at the tray holding her keys, phone, glasses, expensive-looking pen, and roughly two dollars in change. Amber scooped them up and slid her glasses back where they belonged; she was practically blind without them.

“And what’s your business here?” The male officer asked.

“Gwen Bartlet here to see Phillip Castor as his defense attorney.”

The man picked up a tablet and skimmed through it. “Ah. Got it. One o’clock appointment.” He handed the tablet to the female officer and said, “Ma’am, if you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the visitor’s center.

“Of course, officer,” Amber repeated as she hefted her leather business bag off the table and followed the man as he led her through the double doors and to a set of elevators. Neither spoke as they waited for their ride nor exchanged pleasantries as the lift’s doors closed behind them, and they began to ascend. It would have been labeled an uncomfortable silence if Amber had been able to feel such a thing. Instead, she pulled out her phone and texted: I’m in the elevator. Please begin.

Apparently, her escort didn’t feel the same way about uncomfortable silences.

“These are some of the slowest elevators I’ve ever been on,” the guard finally said.

“Yes, well ... this used to be a hospital, you see,” Amber said, staring at the floor indicator above the door. “I believe it went bankrupt about ten years ago and was bought out by another company. They refurbished it as a prison.”

The man’s eyebrows climbed up his head as he looked at her. “What does that have to do with the elevators being slow?”

“At the time, in the state of Colorado, there was a local ordinance that required slow elevator speeds in hospitals due to health issues. The law was repealed twelve years ago, but the hospital was constructed eleven years prior to the removal.” Amber’s eyes hadn’t once drifted away from the floor indicator.

Before the officer could reply, the doors slid open, and the pair left the elevator, took a right, and headed down a corridor well-lit in a warm, incandescent glow. It was much different than the cold florescent lights of regular prisons, and the hallways of those didn’t have pleasant classical music piped through speakers in the walls. If one must go to prison, this was the way to do it.

The guard stopped in front of a door and opened it. “Officer Estes should be here in a few minutes with Mr. Castor.

Nodding her head once, Amber walked into the room and looked around, unbothered as the door shut behind her. The spacious lounge would have been impressive if such things had impressed Amber. As she stood there, she took in the sight of cucumber water, lounge chairs, a large-screen television, a comfortable-looking full-sized bed, and a bar filled with snacks and drinks. It was hardly a drab place where people went to think about their crimes in remorse and sorrow.

Instead of enjoying one of the loungers, Amber went to the small square table and sat in one of the seats. She pulled out her pen and notepad, set it on the table, folded her hands on the paper, and simply waited as she stared around the room.

Almost fifteen minutes had passed before the door she’d walked through opened, and in walked a man who appeared to be in his early to mid-fifties. He had short salt-and-pepper hair and a five-o’clock shadow. He was wearing cargo pants and a button-down short-sleeve shirt, making it look more like he was on a beach vacation than serving a sentence in prison.

“You’re not Bianca,” he said, stopping short as he looked at her in confusion. The prison door swung shut behind him.

“No,” Amber said, rising out of her chair. “I certainly am not.”

The man’s easy manner was replaced by a look of nervousness; his dark eyes darted around the room as if looking for someone else. He suddenly looked like a man being hunted for sport.

“Please,” the lawyer said, gesturing to one of the other chairs at the table. “Have a seat. You’re not in any danger. Your name is Phillip Castor, correct?”

The man eyed the seat warily but didn’t move. “Who sent you? What do you want?”

Turning back to the table, she reached into her bag, pulled out several sheets of paper, and laid them on the surface. “My name is Amber Bell, and I represent Brantwood Holdings. They’ve expressed an interest in filling the void left by your partner’s ... ehm ... demise.”

“Thanks,” Castor said, still not moving. “I’m good.”

“Nonsense,” Amber said. “Everyone can always be made better.”

“Not me. Everything I need’s taken care of.”

“You... did hear that Colin Gerrard died, yes?” Amber said.

“Yes, but my deal still holds.”

Amber gave him a doubtful look. “For now, but Gerrard’s grandson has inherited his estate and has a different set of principles that guide his actions. He’s already begun the first steps of reforming his flagship company.”

Castor’s eyes wandered across her features uncertainly. “That ... shouldn’t matter, right?”

“Normally, no,” Amber said. “However, in your case, the legality of your agreement with the late Colin Gerrard is ... tenuous at best. I’m afraid if you were to challenge any change or discontinuation of the deal you made, it would attract untoward attention. I’m sure your family would not appreciate having their income or security ripped from them, and I wonder how long you would last in a prison...” She looked around the room as if trying to grasp the right words, then leveled her gaze back at Castor. “With less amenities.”

Phillip visibly tensed, approached the woman, and sat at the table to her right. “Are you threatening my family?”

Amber retook her seat, trying to puzzle out how best to respond to the man. “Not at all, Mr. Castor. My firm is interested in continuing the relationship between you and Mr. Gerrard. Your deal would continue as-is with no difference.”

“First, how does your firm know about the deal, and why would they be interested in continuing it?”

“Because you have something they want,” Amber said, pushing the papers toward the man along with the pen. “The ledger you stole from Mr. Gerrard.”

“Christ,” Castor guffawed. “You’re not asking for much.”

“It’s the payment Brantwood requires for their ... generous offer,” Amber said.

Phillip leaned forward, his hands pressed together as he gestured at Amber. “You know it’s the only thing that’s kept me alive and my family fed for all these years, right?”

“Mm.” Amber adjusted her glasses and said, “I’m aware. However, with Mr. Gerrard’s passing, it is no longer a threat to him. Its only value to my company is in its acquisition. Despite the artifact’s diminished value to you, Brantwood is willing to double the original financial offer Mr. Gerrard gave you and sponsor efforts to have you exonerated.”