Visiting Harrison

The perfect math of the new blueprint was still settling in my mind when I pulled into the visitor's lot of the county correctional facility. The building was a concrete slab surrounded by razor wire, an architecture designed for maximum containment. It was the antithesis of the sprawling Tudor, yet it was exactly where the Vance dynasty belonged.

I walked through the heavy, reinforced doors, the Sancerre trust documentation heavy in my briefcase. The waiting area was sterile, smelling of industrial bleach and defeat. A deputy logged my ID, his eyes flicking to my name, recognizing the woman who had put two of the county's most prominent men in jumpsuits.

"Booth four, Ms. Vance," he said, pressing a button that buzzed a heavy steel door open.

I walked down the narrow, fluorescent-lit corridor. The visiting booths were partitioned by thick, scratched plexiglass. I sat down on the hard metal stool in booth four and waited.

A door on the other side of the glass opened. A guard escorted Harrison into the room.

He didn't look like the Chief of Psychiatry anymore. The county orange jumpsuit swallowed his frame, highlighting the sharp, sudden weight loss. His hair, usually perfectly styled, was limp and graying at the roots. But it was his hands that told the real story. Without access to his carefully managed pharmacy, the tremors were violent, causing his fingers to spasm uncontrollably as he picked up the black plastic receiver.

I picked up mine, the cord spiraling down to the metal counter.

"Eleanor," Harrison rasped. His voice lacked the smooth, clinical baritone he used to diagnose and dismiss. It sounded thin, stripped of all authority. "You shouldn't have come. Arthur's lawyers... they're tracking your movements. They're trying to build a case that you're obsessed."

"Let them track me," I said, my voice steady, projecting through the scratchy audio connection. "They have a lot of free time now that Arthur's assets are frozen and the Sancerre trust is fully under my control."

Harrison blinked, his bloodshot eyes widening. "You got the trust?"

"I got Evelyn’s affidavit," I corrected, watching the realization hit him. "The penalty clause is void. The estate is mine. And Julian is tearing down the master suite today."

Harrison pressed his free hand against the plexiglass, his fingers splayed, shaking against the barrier. "El, please. You have to talk to Miller. Tell him the medical logs were hypothetical. Tell him it was a study on dissociatives, not a prescription record. If they stick me with the drugging charges, I’ll lose my license permanently. I’ll never practice again."

"You lost your license the night you turned your sister into a chemistry experiment," I said, my tone flat, refusing to match his panic. I reached into my briefcase and pulled out a thick stack of legal documents.

I held the first page up to the glass.

It was a custody agreement, drafted by Richard Sterling that morning. It formally stripped Harrison of all parental rights to Leo, transferring full, permanent guardianship to me, with provisions for Sarah's visitation.

Harrison stared at the paper, his jaw working silently. The tremor in his hand worsened, rattling the plastic receiver against the glass. "You can't take my son."

"You gave him away when you decided to cover up a murder," I replied, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Sign the papers, Harrison. If you force a family court battle, I will make sure Sarah’s medical records are entered into public evidence before your criminal trial even starts. I will make sure every patient in your clinic knows exactly how you treat your family."

He looked at me, his eyes searching my face for the fragile, anxious girl he had managed for three decades. He didn't find her. He found an architect holding the blueprints to his ruin.

He slumped forward, his forehead resting against the scratched plexiglass, defeated by a structural failure he couldn't medicate away.

'You prescribed my reality, Harrison. Now I dictate yours.'