Ruger claps a hand on my shoulder as he passes. "We've got you, brother. We've got her. This piece of shit is going to pay for what he did."
"I know." I take a breath. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when it's done."
He leaves, and I'm alone in the chapel with my rage and my fear and the image of my wife's bruised face burned into my brain.
One month. Maybe more. That's how long I have to wait.
It's going to be the longest month of my life.
Three days later, we make the drive to Mount Olive.
It's Vanna's idea.
After the attack, after the fear and the tears and the long nights of me holding her while she shook, she woke up one morning and said she needed to see her father.
Face to face. No more letters.
"I don't know how much time I have," she told me, her hand on her stomach. "I don't know what's going to happen with Virgil. But I know I don't want to die with things unfinished. And this—my father—it's unfinished."
I tried to argue.
Told her she didn't need to push herself, that the letters were enough, that she could take her time.
But she was adamant.
And I've learned by now that when Vanna sets her mind to something, there's no talking her out of it.
So here we are.
Pulling into the visitor parking lot of Mount Olive Correctional Complex, the same place I came alone just two months ago.
The January sky is heavy and gray, threatening snow, and the prison rises up out of the hills like something from a nightmare.
Vanna's quiet as we walk toward the entrance.
The bruises on her face have faded to yellow-green, mostly hidden by makeup she spent twenty minutes applying this morning.
But the ones on her throat are still visible—dark purple fingerprints that no amount of concealer can hide.
She's wearing a scarf to cover them, wrapped loosely around her neck, but I can tell she's self-conscious.
She keeps tugging at it, adjusting it, making sure it's in place.
"You okay?" I ask as we reach the door.
"No." She takes a breath, squares her shoulders. "But I'm doing it anyway."
The check-in process is the same as before.
Metal detectors, pat-downs, forms to fill out.
The guards look at Vanna's bruised face but don't comment.
They've probably seen worse.
Probably seen things that would make my stomach turn.
