Hello, Again (Book 2)

Richard Chase

BETSY

The prison warden opened the door to the facility, and looked over his shoulder to see if I was still there. He'd shot to his feet when I entered his office this morning, he still seemed to be in awe that I matched his step toward the cell that would bring me face-to-face with my husband.

"Wait here."

I entered visitation center, where a plexiglass divided the room in two long rectangles. A row of cushioned chairs faced the prisoner entrance, and rusted metal chairs mirrored back—like some kind of fractured reflection. A camera eyed me from the corner, like a fly on the wall ready to swoop down, and I took a deep breath to not lose my composure.

My hands trembled.

The image of Rick at the trial, his dark hair cropped short, blue eyes gleaming with wounded pride, his voice stilted with words that both condemned Katherine's grandfather and implicated him as an accomplice—that image of my husband was etched in my mind. The investigation we'd conducted after he'd been put away was thorough, digging up numerous other names and the involvement of other companies across the world. But much of it was encrypted or hidden, and I wondered what he would say now.

I recognized Jared Dumont and Katie Pierre. Not just their names. But at the house, they'd come for dinner. Those days, Rick actually came back on time. He'd sent me to the kitchen with a plate of food, never far enough to be out of his beck-and-call, but not close enough to hear but a whisper of their dealings.

Did he feel any remorse at all?

His voice on the phone when I'd sent the divorce papers to the prison was so strained, I'd forgotten he was a high-powered CEO at Chase Industries. Then I remembered his aggravation that I had taken over his company. I could do it, of course, and well. Now that the investigation had cleaned up shop, his multi-million dollar conglomerate was nothing more than a mid-sized tech supply company. That definitely made management easier. To know that would kill his pride.

And he wouldn't want to divorce, severing his only ties with his old life.

But I did.

Shane did.

If only he would sign the papers.

I settled into a chair, leaning back against the cushion that smelled faintly of sweat, and let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Footsteps resounded faintly on the concrete flooring from somewhere deep within the prison, and then, the door opened.

Richard Chase entered the visitation room and I gasped.

My husband was virtually unrecognizable. Although his hair remained as black as ever and his eyes as electric as before, the gaunt cut to his cheekbones and the white-ish pallor to his skin made him look cruel. My gut twinged in apprehension, but I forced myself to nod.

"Richard," I choked out.

He faced me from his chair as if he were examining a peasant from his throne, or like a cat before a helpless chicken. "What do you want?" When he spoke, his voice was gravelly, as if he had been smoking heavily since his stay behind bars.

His tone immediately made me flush with anger, though I bit my tongue to hold back the words I wished I could say. Not now. I needed him.

"Why now?" He regarded me as if he were bored, and when his eyes fell on the sterling silver bracelet on my wrist, he sneered. He must've remembered the expensive gold bracelet he'd bought me once. And the poor replacement I had for it now.

"I need answers," I said slowly.

He held up a packet of papers. Divorce papers. Brown spots stained the yellowed, torn pages, and I wondered if it was blood. "This?" He set it down, glaring at the top page so hard I could almost imagine my name would catch on fire. "Forget it, Elizabeth," he said. "You know my terms."