| Romance Fiction posted October 4, 2025 | Chapters: |
...33 34 -35- 36... 
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The Prison Visit
A chapter in the book Yesterday's Dreams
The Untold Story Chap 13
by Begin Again
The prison sat low and square against the horizon, its fences topped with coils of wire that glinted dully under the overcast sky. A cold wind swept across the parking lot, tugging at Rachel's coat as she stared at the heavy walls and narrow windows. Her chest tightened; it felt like the air was being pulled out of her.
Noah cut the engine and studied her face. "You don't have to do this today," he said quietly. "We can walk away. Let Runyard handle it."
Rachel shook her head. Her voice wavered but held. "No. We've come this far. I can do this — for Mom, for Anthony, for me — and maybe even for Mark."
Noah reached over and gave her hand a steady squeeze. "Then let's finish it."
She nodded once, opened the door, and braced against the wind as they walked toward the entrance.
Inside, a guard directed them through the metal detector. Both Rachel and Noah surrendered their phones, keys, and wallets, each item dropped into a plastic bin and locked away. The guard stamped their wrists with invisible ink and waved them down the corridor toward the visitor room.
The space was small, with fluorescents humming overhead, the air sharp with the scent of floor cleaner and old coffee.
Noah sat close enough if she needed him, far enough to let her lead.
The door buzzed. Joe Lawson shuffled in, thinner than his mugshot but cocky, a grin pulling at his mouth. Wrists cuffed to a belly chain, an orange jumpsuit worn thin at the knees. He stopped just inside, eyes cutting to Noah. "What the hell," he said with a dry laugh. "I agreed to see my baby girl, not one of the town criers. Needed a witness? Or a bodyguard?" He half turned, but the guard slid across the door, blocking him. Joe smirked. "Guess I don't get to pick my company."
Rachel straightened. "What's the matter, Joe? Afraid?"
"Afraid?" He dragged out the chair and dropped into it, the chain clinking. His glare shifted to Noah. "You had to bring support because you're still shivering in your shoes. What's the matter, girl? Still afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?"
Noah's chair scraped a fraction. "Watch your —" he started.
Rachel touched his wrist — one quick squeeze — her eyes never leaving Joe. "I've got this."
She folded her hands. "I didn't come for a friendly chat. I want answers."
Joe chuckled. "Ha. You don't even know the questions."
"Let me tell you what I do know," she said. "Mom was smart enough to take pictures."
His smile twitched. "If that were true, sweetheart, the cops would've solved her boyfriend problem long ago. Ask me? He had had enough of her weak self and walked."
"You're wrong," Rachel said, even. "She had the pictures. Maybe she was too afraid to use them." She leaned in a hair. "I'm not."
Anger flashed in Joe's eyes; he leaned forward until the chain pricked. The guard shifted a step, hand near his belt.
Joe sat back with a short laugh, voice turning knife-sharp. "Should've used that strap more. Maybe you'd have learned respect. Instead, you ran." He jerked his chin at Noah. "Where was anyone then? Left me and the boy to carry it."
Noah's jaw set; he held his tongue. Rachel drew strength from his stillness.
"Where I can be stubborn, I will be," she said. "I want to understand that night. I want to be clear on what you did — and what Mark did."
Joe's laugh went dry. "What night would that be?"
"The one where you killed Anthony."
"I'd watch your tongue, young lady. Where's your proof? Sure, we had a little fistfight, but that doesn't prove I killed anyone. Somebody find a body? 'Cause if they did, I haven't heard." He laughed. "Nothing gets by me, even in here."
"You're so proud of yourself," Rachel said. "You left a boy to clean up your mess and follow your orders."
"He took directions," Joe said, eyes glittering. "He did his part. He's been useful — took care of your mom, sent a little extra to my account now and then."
"Do you know what you did to him? He was a child."
"He was whatever I needed him to be." Joe's tone turned almost bored. "Might not even be mine. Your mama had a soft spot for that veteran — you think I didn't see it? Didn't matter. Blood or no blood — the boy did his job."
Rachel let a breath in and out. "You won't tell me where Anthony is?"
Joe smiled, almost fondly. "What good would that do me? You want dirt, you do the work. You want proof? Bring the law and let it grind."
"Tessa told the truth," Rachel said. "Mrs. Lawson wrote down what she heard. Bill remembers what Anthony wore around his neck. The law will grind."
For a moment, his smile thinned. "Memories fade. Facts get lost. You think they can beat me?"
"Every time."
A tic flicked in his jaw; he smoothed it away. "Your mother signed what I put in front of her. When she didn't, the boy fetched another paper. Fixed it."
Rachel's eyes narrowed. "Which paper?"
He made a show of thinking. "Ask that little lawyer in town about drafts that were never filed. Ask who came late to pick up the old copy after Mama changed her mind. Ask who liked to play delivery boy. Made him feel important. He caught on fast."
"The game?" she said quietly. "You played with his life — and Mom's."
Joe's smile warmed into something like joy. He leaned until the chain protested. "Where were you when she needed you? Off to a sleepover? Off to college? She was always calling for you. Where's my Rachel? You didn't hear it, did you?"
Rachel flinched, then steadied. "I hear it now. And I'm here."
Joe's voice dropped, mock-tender. "You think you can unteach a lifetime? Scrape my voice out of his head? Good luck."
The guard tapped his watch.
Rachel stood. "We're finished."
Joe glanced at the clock, then back at her. "Tell your detective to start where he already started," he said, voice warm as a trap. "With people who were useful to me. They remember what they did." He smiled, small and pleased. "They always do."
They turned to leave. As the door buzzed, Joe's laugh chased them down the corridor. "Let me know when you find a body."
*****
Detective Runyard had a conference room ready. He listened without interrupting as Rachel summarized the visit.
Detective Runyard had a conference room ready. He listened without interrupting as Rachel summarized the visit.
"He's careful," she finished. "He'll smear everyone before he gives anything away. He's got people caught in their fears and webs of mistrust."
"Then we don't wait for him to give," Runyard said. "We build around him."
Noah laid out what they had gathered — the bank summary with redacted dates and amounts, the clock ticket photo, and Mr. Hanley's note stating that the brooch was pulled from sale and held for the police. Runyard scanned, copied, and clipped everything to a thin but growing file.
There was a knock at the door. A tired man in a good suit eased in, clutching a worn briefcase. "Detective," he said. "Ms. Hart. I'm Thomas Ambrose."
Runyard stood halfway. "Mr. Ambrose, thanks for coming."
The lawyer set the case on the table and opened it, as if something might jump out. He slid out a heavy paper document. "I heard you were looking into the Lawson estate. I wasn't going to get involved, but —" He pushed the paper forward. "This is the original will Julia signed years ago. Proper witnesses, proper seal. It names you, Rachel, as primary heir to the house and its contents."
He wet his lips. "Months before she died, Mark brought me a draft favoring him. Asked me to 'fix' a clerical issue. I told him I would only file anything new with Julia's signed confirmation in front of me." He glanced up. "The next day she called — upset — said she'd been pressured, didn't want to change anything. I never filed a new will. I kept the original in my office safe."
Ambrose's mouth tightened. "Later that week, Mark came back, insisting on 'picking up the old copy' to show someone. He left with a copy. He never returned it."
Runyard tapped the heavy paper. "So the valid instrument is this original, naming Rachel. The later draft was never executed and never filed."
"Correct," Ambrose said. "But because Mark had a copy, he could wave papers at jewelers and repair shops and use the word estate like a magic trick. I'm not accusing those businesses — only noting how it was done."
Rachel's stomach tightened. "He used Mom to empty her life."
Ambrose winced, then steadied. "He used her name," he said gently. "People believed him because it was easier than asking hard questions. Small towns tend to back away instead of getting involved." He hesitated and then added, "Including me."
Runyard slid the will into a clear sleeve. "This gives us motive, method, and a paper trail. With your permission, I'll get a certified copy attached to affidavits and lodge the original with the court for safekeeping."
Rachel nodded. "Please."
The copier whirred. Ambrose buttoned his coat. "I'm sorry," he told Rachel and meant it.
In the hall, Tessa, Karen, and Mrs. Lawson waited. Tessa grabbed Rachel's arm as she approached. "I did it," Tessa said, voice tremoring. "All of it. I thought I'd throw up, but I didn't."
Rachel took her hand. "I'm proud of you."
Mrs. Lawson lifted her spiral notebook like a flag. "I showed them what I wrote — the times. That's exactly what they needed."
Runyard joined the group and agreed, taking both the notebook and the cookie tin. He looked around at them all — the neighbor with her pencil, the babysitter with her shaking hands, the widower with tired eyes, the daughter who looked steadier than yesterday.
"We'll keep moving," he said. "I'll push subpoenas for the Clayton law firm and caregiver invoices. Once I've got a judge, we'll proceed by the book. No surprises in court."
*****
Outside, the air smelled like coming snow. Noah put Rachel into the truck and gently shut the door. He rounded to his side and buckled in.
Outside, the air smelled like coming snow. Noah put Rachel into the truck and gently shut the door. He rounded to his side and buckled in.
"Home?" he asked.
"Home," she said. "I want to sit where it's quiet and remember there's a tomorrow."
He drove them to the apartment over the pharmacy. Inside, the lamp made a soft pool on the small couch. Coffee steamed. They sat shoulder to shoulder under a blanket, and she let the day slow down, comforted by his breathing.
Her phone buzzed, and Mark's face filled the screen. She stared at it until Noah slid his hand on top of hers, whispering, "It will wait till tomorrow. Tonight, you need to rest and regroup."
She let the screen go dark and leaned into him. "I keep expecting to fall apart, and then I'll run again."
"But you won't. You'll keep showing up," he said. "That counts more."
She turned and kissed him — steady and full of meaning. He kissed her back, at first, it was soft and gentle, and then the kissed deepened. He had a message he needed her to understand.
When she pulled away, her voice was almost a whisper. "I'm not going anywhere. I know I can face tomorrow."
He pulled the blanket up and kissed the back of her neck. "Together. We face it together," he said, stroking her hair until sleep took her.
*****
On Ashland Avenue, Mark crouched beside the shovel, dirt clinging to his hands. In a small, eerie voice, he whispered into the dark: "Mark's a good boy, Daddy. He found it — just like you wanted him to."
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