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Chapter Thirty-Seven: I Know the End
The gravel had grown accustomed to Harper's feet as she paced outside the prison, biting her short nails anxiously. It had been twenty minutes since the cab dropped her outside, the nerves making it hard for her to breathe.
Her press credentials gathered droplets of sweat in the grip of her hands, and she knew she was running out of time. Visiting hours would be over soon, and she needed to hurry up.
She felt a little pity for the arms dealer who was no doubt sitting in the visitation room, wondering why a random journalist he'd never met before wanted to interview him. Unfortunately, he would never know - Harper had other plans for who she wanted to talk to.
As for how she'd ensured Spencer would be in that room, that story also made her feel guilty.
She really, really hadn't wanted to get any of the BAU involved. Not only did she not want to deal with disapproving - or more likely, pitying - looks, but she also didn't want to bring anyone down with her. So she had entrusted in the one member she knew wouldn't try to talk her out of it. Rossi.
It was kind of weird, she'd never really spoken to him before, she had only heard of him through Spencer. JJ would never have crossed a line or broken Spencer's trust, Garcia would ask too many questions and Emily... well Harper was just a little scared of Emily.
So, a few days ago Harper had rung Rossi nervously and asked him to schedule a time to visit Spencer today but not show up. Maybe he understood the feeling of not getting to say a proper goodbye, or maybe he felt a soft spot because Harper reminded him a little of his daughter. Either way, he'd agreed and now she was here.
She knew she had crossed a moral boundary or two, that her foot was well and truly over the line. She hated the fact that she'd become somewhat of a dirty journalist, but she had bigger worries right now than her integrity. She'd made a choice, a grey one, in order to see Spencer again.
It was a small sacrifice to pay if it would ease some of the tension in her mind the past month, the constant turmoil that made it hard to sleep or focus. Even if things went badly, at least it would give her some closure.
Or at least that's what she told herself as she stepped in between the gates.
Harper's hands trembled as she slid her press credentials across the visitor checkpoint counter. The prison officer behind the glass examined them with a skeptical eye, glancing between her and the documents. She had rehearsed this moment a hundred times in her head, but her heart pounded as if it would burst through her chest.
"You're here to interview one of the inmates?" the officer asked, his tone neutral but laced with suspicion.
Harper nodded, forcing her voice to sound steady. "Yes. I'm working on a piece about wrongful convictions. I've been granted clearance." She handed over the paperwork she'd agonized over, the official seal of approval from the prison administration gleaming in the corner. It had taken weeks of relentless emails, a few white lies, and every ounce of her journalistic credibility to get this far.
