Chapter 13
Following the gala, Arthur returned to his Virginia estate to find a confidential package waiting on his desk. The return address was handwritten in messy, hurried block letters from the upstate federal penitentiary.
He didn't open it immediately, leaving it resting beside his laptop while he poured a glass of single-malt scotch. He knew the contents would undoubtedly be filled with desperate pleas, empty threats, or pathetic apologies from Clara.
He finally picked up a silver letter opener, slicing the heavy paper envelope open with clinical detachment. Inside was a single polaroid photograph taken inside the prison recreation yard under harsh fluorescent lighting.
Clara stood against a gray concrete wall, looking haggard, aged, and broken beyond any hope of professional repair. Written on the back of the photograph in shaky, uneven handwriting was a chilling confession of defeat.
"You won everything, Arthur; I am dying in this cage of my own making."
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Arthur stared at the image for three long, silent seconds before tossing the photograph into the fireplace hearth. The flames consumed the paper instantly, turning the final physical remnant of his past marriage into gray ash.
He poured another sip of scotch, raising his glass in a silent toast to an era that was permanently dead and buried.
