He Killed Our Daughter For His Mistress—Now I’m Back With A Reckoning

Before his transfer to the maximum-security penitentiary in Colorado, Adrian DeLuca was held in a secure federal detention facility outside Joliet, Illinois.

He was allowed one final visitor.

Adrian sat behind the thick plexiglass partition in the visiting booth, wearing a bright orange prison jumpsuit. His wrists were chained to a steel ring welded into the concrete floor. His face was sallow, his hair buzz-cut by prison barbers, and a jagged scar ran across his forehead from the crash that had destroyed his world.

The door on the visitor’s side clicked open.

Claire stepped inside. She wore a simple beige sweater and dark jeans. She sat down on the metal stool across from him, resting her hands on the narrow ledge. She didn't pick up the telephone receiver.

Adrian hurriedly grabbed the plastic phone on his side, his hands shaking so violently the cord rattled against the glass. He pressed the receiver to his ear and tapped on the glass, mouthing the words: Pick up. Please.

Claire looked at him for several seconds. Then, with calm deliberation, she lifted the receiver to her ear.

“Claire,” Adrian choked out, tears instantly spilling down his sunken cheeks. “Thank you. Thank you for coming. I didn't think you would come.”

Claire said nothing. Her gaze was steady, calm, and utterly devoid of warmth.

“I know what I did,” Adrian wept, pressing his forehead against the cold glass. “I replay it every second of every day. In the dark in my cell, I hear her crying. I hear Sophie asking me to slow down. Claire, I swear to God, if I could trade my life for hers right now, I would do it without thinking! Please... you have to believe me! I loved our daughter!”

“No, Adrian,” Claire replied, her voice smooth and quiet through the receiver. “You didn't love Sophie. You loved having a family when it was convenient for your image. You loved showing her off at charity galas. But when it came to choosing between her safety and your greed, you chose yourself. You always chose yourself.”

“I have nothing left!” Adrian sobbed, pulling against the chains around his wrists until the metal bit into his skin. “They took the company. They took the houses. They took every cent. The guards treat me like dirt. The other inmates... Claire, I’m going to die in Colorado! I will never see the outside world again!”

“I know,” Claire said simply.

Adrian looked at her, his eyes searching her face desperately for even a sliver of the woman who used to greet him at the door with a kiss after a twelve-hour workday. But that woman was gone. He had killed her on Route 12 alongside Sophie.

“Are you happy now?” Adrian whispered, his voice cracking with bitter despair. “You destroyed me. You took everything I ever worked for. Are you satisfied?”

Claire leaned in slightly closer to the glass.

“I didn't destroy you, Adrian. Your own choices destroyed you. I merely held up the mirror so everyone could see what you really were.”

She pulled a small, folded piece of paper from her pocket and pressed it against the glass. It was an artist’s rendering of the new pediatric hospital: a bright, sunlit building surrounded by gardens and playgrounds, with large letters over the entrance: THE SOPHIE VANCE MEMORIAL CENTER.

Adrian stared at the drawing, fresh tears running down his neck into the collar of his orange jumpsuit.

“Your name will be erased from every building in Chicago,” Claire told him quietly. “Your legacy is an orange jumpsuit and a federal inmate number. But Sophie’s name will live on. She will save thousands of children who deserve to grow up. That is what you built, Adrian. You just didn't know it.”

Adrian shook his head wildly, pressing his palms against the partition. “Claire, don't leave me here like this! Write to me! Visit me once a year! Just tell me you forgive me!”

Claire slowly took the receiver away from her ear.

She looked through the glass at the broken, ruined man who had once thought he ruled the world. There was no hatred left in her heart. Hatred required an emotional investment, and Adrian DeLuca was no longer worth a single drop of her soul.

She hung up the telephone.