Chapter 8 - The Contraband Phone And The Vengeful Mother-In-Law
The dark,
damp walls of the state penitentiary echoed endlessly with the terrifying sounds of dangerous criminals.
Margaret sat bitterly in her tiny concrete cell,
her heart entirely consumed by a fierce,
burning hatred for the woman who had ruined her perfect,
luxurious life.
She was wearing a highly unflattering,
scratchy orange jumpsuit,
her once beautiful hair now dull,
gray,
and completely unkempt.
Her expensive acrylic nails had completely broken off,
leaving her hands looking rough,
aged,
and absolutely pathetic.
She absolutely despised the terrible prison food,
she hated the incredibly loud,
obnoxious inmates,
and she loathed the complete lack of basic privacy.
But more than anything else in the entire world,
she hated Emily Carter.
Margaret blamed my daughter for absolutely everything,
refusing to take even a single ounce of personal responsibility for the kidnapping,
the brutal extortion,
or the massive financial fraud her idiot son had committed.
In Margaret's twisted,
delusional mind,
if Emily had simply handed over the fifty thousand dollars like a good,
obedient wife,
none of this terrible nightmare would have ever happened.
Late that evening,
while the harsh prison guards were conducting their standard shift change,
Margaret pulled a small,
illegal contraband cell phone from a hidden hole inside her thin mattress.
She had traded highly valuable commissary items for weeks to acquire the cheap device,
planning a brutal,
calculated revenge from behind the thick iron bars.
She dialed a complex,
heavily encrypted phone number,
her hands shaking slightly with malicious excitement.
"Yeah?"
a deep,
gravelly voice answered on the other end of the unstable connection.
"It's Margaret,"
she whispered urgently,
glancing nervously at the heavy steel door of her small cell.
"I heard Marcus made first contact with the nurse today."
"He did,"
the voice confirmed coldly,
showing absolutely no emotion or personal interest.
"But she didn't break,
and she completely refused to pay the outstanding debt."
Margaret smiled wickedly in the dark,
her eyes gleaming with pure,
unadulterated malice.
"She thinks she is untouchable because her mother is a local police officer,"
Margaret explained quietly,
her voice dripping with disgusting venom.
"You need to apply significantly more pressure,
make her feel completely isolated,
make her genuinely fear for her miserable life."
"We do not take strategic orders from an incarcerated,
convicted felon,"
the man replied harshly,
completely destroying Margaret's false sense of authority.
"We are handling the collection process our own specific way,
and you need to stay entirely out of it,
unless you want us to collect the debt from your blood instead."
The call disconnected abruptly,
leaving Margaret staring blankly at the glowing screen,
a sudden wave of real,
visceral fear washing over her entirely.
She realized,
with a terrifying suddenness,
that she had unleashed a powerful,
uncontrollable beast that she could no longer manipulate or direct.
She was no longer the wealthy,
respected matriarch of a perfect suburban family;
she was just another desperate criminal,
completely at the mercy of highly violent,
unforgiving men.
Meanwhile,
I was sitting in my unmarked police cruiser,
parked silently across the street from a dirty,
run-down bar where Marcus Thorne was known to operate his illegal businesses.
The heavy rain had started pouring violently from the dark sky,
obscuring my vision,
making the neon signs of the bar blur into glowing pools of red and blue light.
I watched the entrance meticulously,
my sharp eyes tracking every single person who entered or exited the dangerous establishment.
I was absolutely determined to confront him,
to send a clear,
undeniable message that my family was strictly off-limits.
Just before midnight,
the heavy wooden door of the bar swung open,
and Marcus stepped out onto the wet,
slippery sidewalk,
lighting a cheap cigarette.
I stepped out of my warm vehicle,
the cold rain instantly soaking my tactical jacket,
my right hand resting heavily on the grip of my holstered weapon.
I walked slowly,
deliberately across the empty street,
my eyes locked fiercely on his ugly,
arrogant face.
He noticed me approaching,
his eyes narrowing dangerously,
his hand slowly drifting toward his own concealed waistband.
"Mr. Thorne,"
I called out loudly,
my voice slicing effortlessly through the loud sounds of the heavy rain.
May you like
"We need to have a very serious,
highly unpleasant conversation about a white envelope you delivered to a hospital today."
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