Behind the glass

Isabel’s POV

The visiting room is cold—clinical in every sense. A wall of thick glass divides us, scratched from years of silent pleas and confrontations like this. I’m seated on one side, my hands resting on the metal table bolted to the floor. The faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzes overhead, mixing with the distant chatter of officers in the background.

The door creaks open. James walks in, flanked by a tired-looking officer who gestures for him to sit. 

James slumps into the seat across from me, his movements sluggish, like someone dragging through the motions. His cuffs clink against the table as he leans back, and then—he scoffs. It’s the kind of scoff that doesn’t need words. Bored. Detached. As though I’m just one more face in a long line of visitors.

It’s written all over his face. The boredom. The exhaustion. He’s had too many visitors lately, all hoping to make him talk.

I understand why. I’ve been sending people to him for weeks—lawyers, co