Chapter 20 - The Visitor at Otisville
The visitor’s booth at the Federal Correctional Institution in Otisville was a grim, sterile cube of cinderblock and plexiglass. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead was relentless, casting a sickly yellow hue over the stainless steel tables.
Evan Bennett sat on the prisoner’s side, clad in standard-issue orange scrubs. In just a few short months, the once-regal architect had decayed dramatically. His silver hair was unkempt, his tailored posture slumped into the defensive slouch of a beaten dog. But when the heavy steel door opened and Claire walked in, accompanied by two high-ranking corporate attorneys, a spark of his old, arrogant defiance flared in his sunken eyes.
“Claire,” Evan said, grabbing the receiver on his side of the partition. “Took you long enough. Have you come to your senses? Have you spoken to the legal defense fund? Julian said you were living like a queen in Italy while your own blood rots in a cage.”
Claire did not touch the receiver immediately. She sat down, crossing her legs elegantly, dressed in a bespoke charcoal wool coat with the Vance signet ring gleaming boldly under the harsh lights. Matteo remained stationed right outside the glass door, his piercing gaze never leaving Evan’s face.
Claire picked up the phone. Her voice was deadpan. “You look terrible, Evan.”
Evan bristled, his face reddening. “Evan? Is that what you call your father? I raised you! I put a roof over your head! I gave you the skills that made you rich in Rome!”
“You didn't give me a single thing,” Claire said, her voice a calm, slicing razor. “You stole my designs. You stole my youth. You had your petty, bitter wife treat me like a domestic servant. But worst of all, Evan... you stole me from Lake Geneva.”
At the mention of *Lake Geneva*, the color drained instantly from Evan Bennett’s face. His jaw went slack. The receiver in his hand trembled, tapping against the plexiglass with a hollow rattle.
“What... what are you talking about?” he stammered, though his eyes betrayed his sheer, paralyzing panic.
“Genevieve Vance,” Claire enunciated every syllable with lethal clarity. “Christian Vance unsealed the trust thirty-six hours ago. The Palazzo della Rovere project satisfied Arthur Vance’s conditions. I have the journals, Evan. I have the bank statements from 1991. And I have the audiotape Genevieve recorded twenty minutes before you cut the steering lines on her boat.”
Evan’s breathing became ragged. He looked around wildly, as if expecting the guards to descend upon him right there.
“It was an accident,” he hissed into the phone, his voice cracking into desperation. “She was hysterical! She was going to ruin my career before it even started! Arthur Vance was an elitist tyrant who treated me like dirt! I built Bennett Design! I deserved that legacy!”
“You built nothing,” Claire retorted, leaning forward until her face was inches from the glass. “You couldn't even design an addition to a barn without my mother’s sketches, and when those ran out, you locked me in the basement to do it for you. You are a thief, a fraud, and a murderer.”
Evan’s face twisted into an ugly, sneering mask of hatred. The facade of the respectable father shattered completely, revealing the monster underneath.
“You think you’ve won?” Evan snarled, spitting against the glass. “You think a fancy ring and a Swiss trust make you invincible? Julian is out there! Eleanor is out there! We have contacts! We have friends in Boston who will contest that fraudulent trust until you don't have a single penny left to your name! You will always be the little girl who cried in the pantry on Christmas Eve while my son opened his presents!”
Claire didn't flinch. In fact, she smiled—a cold, pitying smile that chilled Evan to his very marrow.
“Julian doesn't have a penny, Evan,” she whispered. “This morning, Valmont Holdings acquired the debt portfolio of the commercial brokerage Julian works for. He was fired two hours ago. As for Eleanor... the federal marshals are evicting her from her South Boston rental as we speak, because every asset she possesses is legally encumbered under Swiss restitution liens. And as for you...”
Claire pulled a folded document from her coat and pressed it against the glass. It was an international warrant for extradition bearing the scarlet seal of Interpol and the Federal Department of Justice in Bern.
“Aggravated murder in the first degree,” Claire said softly. “You will not spend eight years in Otisville, Evan. Next week, you will be boarded onto a Swiss federal aircraft. You will stand trial in Lausanne, in the very city where Genevieve was born. You will spend the remainder of your miserable, talentless life in a maximum-security cell in Thorberg, staring at walls you never had the talent to build.”
Evan’s hand lost all strength. The receiver slipped from his grasp and swung violently on its metal cord.
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“Claire... Claire, please!” Evan yelled, slamming his palms against the glass, tears of terror finally spilling down his hollow cheeks. “I’m your father! I protected you from Arthur! He was going to put you in a boarding school! Claire! Look at me!”
Claire hung up her receiver. She stood up, adjusted her coat, and turned her back on him. As the heavy steel door clicked shut behind her, Evan’s frantic screams were swallowed by the sterile silence of the prison corridor.
