Otisville Federal Correctional Institution.
My lungs bottom out, like an anchor suddenly dropped.
I step away from the window, moving through the kitchen and into the hallway where the noise from the pool party fades to a distant murmur. The phone is still buzzing. I could let it go to voicemail. I could pretend I didn’t see it, didn’t hear it, didn’t feel the immediate clench of obligation in my chest.
I answer.
“You have a collect call from an inmate at Otisville Federal Correctional Institution. To accept charges, press one.”
I press one.
“Taio?” My father’s voice comes through the line, slightly distorted by prison phone quality but unmistakably him. That smooth baritone that used to read me bedtime stories, that commanded boardrooms and charmed investors, that told me I could be anything I wanted when I grew up.
“Hey, Dad.” I lean against the hallway wall, closing my eyes. “How are you?”
“Oh, you know.” A pause, weighted with unspoken accusation. “Same as always. Counting the days. Watching the clock. Waiting for someone to visit.”
Here it comes.
“I checked the visitation schedule online. Your name isn’t on tomorrow’s list.” His tone is carefully neutral, but I know it well. It’s the one he uses when he wants you to feel guilty withouthaving to explicitly accuse you of anything. “Did something happen? Are you sick?”
“No, I’m not sick. I’m in Miami.”
Silence.
“Miami,” he repeats flatly. I can hear the machinery turning in his head, that analytical mind that built an empire on calculated theft and betrayal. “What’s in Miami?”
“I got a new job. It requires some travel.” I keep my voice light, casual, like this is a normal conversation between a father and son. “I’ll be back in New York soon. I’ll get on the visitation schedule the second I’m back.”
“A new job.” The words land heavy with skepticism. “What kind of job takes you to Miami on such short notice that you can’t even tell your father about it?”
“Private security. Personal protection detail.” It’s not entirely a lie. “Good money. Steady work. The kind of opportunity I couldn’t pass up.”
“Private security.” He lets that hang there, and I can practically see him turning them over, examining them for weaknesses. My father never takes anything at face value. “For who?”
“I can’t really discuss the details. Client confidentiality.”
“Client confidentiality.” A soft laugh, but there’s no warmth in it. “You sound like a lawyer. Or like someone who’s hiding something.”
“Dad, I’m not hiding anything. It’s just work. I’m under an NDA. I can’t say more, especially not on a recorded line.”
“Mmm.” The sound is noncommittal, loaded. “And this work couldn’t wait until after visitation? You know how much I look forward to seeing you, Taio. It’s the only thing that gets me through these weeks. Sitting in that room, watching the clock, knowing you’re coming…it’s the one bright spot in this whole miserable existence.”
His words land with surgical precision, right where they’re meant to—a direct hit to the center of my chest. I press my palm against my sternum as if to contain the spreading ache. Dad makes Otisville sound like Alcatraz, but I’ve seen the “prison” where he’s serving time. All the calls may say Otisville, but he’s serving at a Satellite Prison Camp. Barely there security. Dormitory-style housing. Recreation areas. A commissary better stocked than my corner bodega. The man who once owned three vacation homes now acts like sharing a bathroom is torture, as if the real punishment isn’t the bars but the indignity of consequences catching up to him.
“Dad, I’m sorry. It came up suddenly. I didn’t have a lot of choice about the timing.”
“There’s always a choice.” His voice is gentle now, reasonable. That’s the thing about my father—he can turn on a dime, switch from interrogation to understanding so smoothly you wonder if you imagined the sharpness. “But I understand. You have your own life to live. I can’t expect you to put everything on hold for me forever.”
“It’s not like that?—”
“No, no. It’s fine. Really.” He sighs, the sound of a man who’s made peace with disappointment. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad, son. I just miss you. It gets lonely in here. The other inmates, they’re not exactly intellectually stimulating company. And the guards—well, you know how they treat people like me. Like I’m still dangerous, still capable of…I don’t know. Orchestrating a Ponzi scheme through the prison phone system.”
Despite myself, I almost smile. “Are you?”
“Perhaps. Visit and find out.” A hint of his old humor surfaces, then fades.
“How are you, really? How’s the commissary? Do you need me to add more money?”
