Chapter 12 - Shadows of the Past
The visiting room at the federal detention facility in downtown Chicago smelled of industrial floor wax, old coffee, and institutional despair.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a harsh, sterile glare across the scarred stainless-steel table bolted to the linoleum floor.
Julian Vance sat on the opposite side of the barrier, wearing an orange jumpsuit that hung loosely over his narrow frame.
His right leg was still wrapped in a medical bandage from the gunshot wound he had sustained at the Montrose Harbor pumping station.
The arrogance that had defined his demeanor during his months as an architect working for the Bertinelli syndicate had completely evaporated, leaving behind the hollow, bitter features of a man who had gambled everything and lost.
The heavy steel door swung open, and Hazel Reed stepped into the booth.
She wore a crisp white blouse and a dark trench coat, her hair pinned back in its severe style.
She did not sit down immediately.
She stood behind the metal chair, looking at her older brother with an expression devoid of anger, pity, or warmth.
“You didn't have to come, Hazel,” Julian muttered, his voice raspy as he avoided her eyes.
“The federal public defender said my sentencing hearing is set for next month.”
“I came to bring you your personal effects from the Belden Avenue apartment,” Hazel said, placing a small cardboard box onto the steel table.
“The lease has been terminated. Your design portfolios and books have been shipped to a storage unit in Evanston.”
Julian looked up, his slate-gray eyes—so similar to her own—narrowing with a desperate, defensive edge.
“Are you still living in that penthouse on Michigan Avenue with Sullivan?”
“I live where I work, Julian,” Hazel replied evenly.
“And where I choose to build my life.”
“He’s a criminal, Hazel!” Julian hissed, leaning forward until the chains on his wrists rattled against the table.
“Arthur Sullivan murdered our father by proxy! He destroyed our family!”
“Arthur Sullivan didn't build the fire that killed our father, Julian,” Hazel said, her voice cutting through the small room like a surgical blade.
“Don Carmine Bertinelli did. And you traded our father’s memory to the exact same monster for five million dollars in offshore bonds.”
Julian flinched as though struck across the face.
He slumped back against the plastic chair, his shoulders shaking slightly under the bright fluorescent light.
“I just wanted out,” he whispered, the defiance draining completely out of his voice.
“I was tired of moving through foster homes while the Sullivans lived like kings.”
“We all carried the same scars, Julian,” Hazel said quietly, resting her hand on the edge of the metal table.
“The difference is that you chose bitterness as an occupation, while I chose the truth.”
She turned toward the heavy steel exit.
“Goodbye, Julian.”
“Hazel—wait!” her brother cried out, slamming his cuffed hands against the table.
“Will you... will you ever come back?”
Hazel paused at the threshold, looking back over her shoulder one last time.
“My office is on the 42nd floor,” she said softly.
May you like
“And my work here is finished.”
She pushed through the heavy door, leaving him alone in the sterile silence of the detention block.
