Tara stepped into a narrow lobby of white walls as her heart thumped. She had arrived at the prison moments ago, only to hesitate at the door. The reality of where she was and what she was about to do slammed into her at full force. But she forced herself through the threshold as her mind gave her every reason to turn around.
She walked up to a large, protruding desk, scribbled her name down on a visitation log, and slid her ID and the clipboard into a slot under a large Plexiglas window. She didn’t even bother to look in front of her at the officer who grabbed the ID from the other side. She was too preoccupied with her thoughts, in keeping herself grounded with strength, and pushing every thought out of her mind telling her to leave.
“Tara Mills?” the officer asked.
It wasn’t just a question. A stroke of familiarity played in his words. As he spoke them, Tara realized too that his voice sounded familiar.
She raised her gaze and was met by a face she had certainly seen before. It was Owen Reiner, an officer she had trained with during recruit training at the NYPD academy. He had the same clean-shaven face and muscular arms that always made the shirts of his uniform look too small. Tara had always thought he would be intimidating if it weren’t for his height. Even seated, Tara could tell that he was still the same short man she remembered. The majority of his body was barely visible behind the desk. Training was the last time Tara had seen him, but he was a difficult person to forget. He always seemed to be at a disadvantage because of his height, and Tara knew he overcompensated by working out. He was one of the strongest and fastest during training, and had run a mile and a half in 8:15. It was a record.
His smile was wide. “Not a place I’d expect to run into you.”
Tara forced a smile. It was not a place she would expect to run into him either, or anyone for that matter, and it was certainly not a place she would hope to. They were an hour outside the city. Last Tara had heard when she left for Quantico, Owen was still in the NYPD, stationed in the Bronx. She was just as surprised to see him here at a state prison.
“When did you leave the NYPD?” she asked.
“About a year ago. My wife’s family lives up here, so we moved after we had a kid. I was able to get a nine-to-five.”
“Congratulations,” Tara replied before an awkward silence fell between them. He was a father now, and the mention only twisted the knot in Tara’s stomach tighter. She had remembered Owen always helping other officers in training, showing them how to increase their strength, their speed, going to the gym with them on weekends. He was always willing to devote his time to those that needed it, and Tara couldn’t help but assume he was a good father. It was a realization that made her suddenly feel like an outsider. She knew that as soon as he knew she was here to see her father—a man convicted of killing her mother—he would never look at her the same. He would pity her. He would dissect everything he knew about her. He would suddenly make sense of all her life choices, of all her reactions in every situation he had witnessed. It was what everyone did once they knew her history. He would assume he knew her, when in reality he knew nothing about her at all.
“Who are you here to see?” he asked as he grabbed hold of the clipboard that Tara had just written her name on moments ago. He scanned the names.
Tara’s heart thumped harder. “Richard Mills.”
The officer nodded as he found Tara’s name. He then looked up again.
“What’s your relation?”
Tara could feel every instinct telling her to turn away, to run. She could feel her palms begin to sweat. “Father,” she started. “He’s my father.”
It was strange saying it out loud. Even though it was an undeniable fact, he didn’t feel like a father to her at all, and it felt odd calling him that.
Owen’s face fell. She could see the pity surface in his eyes, and Tara couldn’t help but feel ashamed as a frustration boiled within her. He only nodded as he motioned to the metal detector and Tara focused on her breathing. She focused on controlling every piece of her being as she stepped through. You can do this, she said to herself. She knew very well how her anxiety worked. It would creep up, and if she didn’t fight back, it would seize her lungs, her body, and her mind.
Another officer stood on the other side of the metal detector. Unlike Owen, he stood tall and showed little emotion, his face stoic. Tara followed him as he opened a large, barred metal gate and continued to walk down a dimly lit hallway. It was lined with brick white walls and a concrete floor that gave off a musty smell. Tara focused on her surroundings, trying to keep her mind preoccupied when it suddenly occurred to her that she had no idea what she would say to her father. She had been so focused on keeping her emotions at bay, and then her interaction with Owen, that she hadn’t even considered how she would broach the subject of her mother’s murder.
It was as if she was a child again, controlled only by emotion, and it irked her that she would allow that to happen. So many times as a child she had approached her father with the intention to ask him something—to get ice cream, to go play with a friend—but then she would see his mood twisted into a scowl as she entered the room. His dark brown eyes that were so dark they looked like one large pupil would stare her into intimidation. She would stare back at him like a deer in headlights as he took a swig of his Budweiser.
“What?” he would bark, and Tara would shoot her eyes to her feet at the realization that she had been standing there quietly for too long.
Eventually, she would mumble that she had nothing to say, or she would lie and say something else that wouldn’t irritate him—something that didn’t require him to take her anywhere or do anything for her—and then she would eventually cower back to her room.
The officer reached the end of the hallway and scanned his ID before opening a large steel door. Tara quickly followed behind. You will just feel it out, she told herself. You got this. As she said the words to herself, she could feel her heart drumming, and a trace of doubt seeped in, but she quickly reminded herself that she wasn’t leaving until she asked.
They came to another door, and the officer stopped before turning around to Tara. He motioned to a small window cutout in the intimidating door.
“He should be a minute. You can go in now,” he said before opening the door for her.
Tara took a deep breath and held the air in her lungs for a moment, as if about to jump into a pool. She stepped into the room, and the door slammed shut behind her. She exhaled. The room was small, about six feet in every direction. It was bare except for a single chair, which sat in front of a glass window. A short steel desk jutted from beneath it.
Tara took a seat as her mind swirled into a haze. No one was in the room opposite the glass window, but she knew that any minute her father would walk through the door. She continued to reassure herself as she sat there. He’s in here, you’re free, she reminded herself. He can’t hurt you. You have every right to ask questions. You’re strong. Don’t you dare look weak in front of him. You came for one thing, and you’re going to get it. She told herself that over and over again as she stared at the doorknob to the room across from her, as if in a trance.
She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. It was instinctual—like staring at the door in an active shooting, hoping you won’t be found. Even after coming so far, there was still a part of her that hoped he wouldn’t want to see her and that they wouldn’t come face to face. But it was a hope she kept pushing away, swatting at it each time it surfaced. She needed to be here. She needed to see him in person.
The doorknob began to turn, snapping Tara out of her trance. She sat up straight, took a deep breath, and tried her best to look as relaxed as possible. The door swung open, and in stepped a tall, lanky officer with jet-black hair. His keys dangled from his belt loop, and they clanked at each movement, almost synchronizing with the pulsating that suddenly started in Tara’s head. He held the door open, looked toward Tara, and nodded––as if to say hello––and then turned toward the door frame.
Every muscle in Tara’s body stiffened. The pulsating in her head roared in her ears. She stared at the door as everything else darkened around it. It felt like minutes were going by, when it had only been a matter of seconds. She could hear movement, then a figure stood in the doorway. She noticed the orange jumpsuit first, but then her eyes moved up his body, and she noticed that someone else stood behind him—an officer, escorting him in. They stopped walking once the door was closed, and Tara stared at the man in the orange jumpsuit’s wrists as the officer removed his cuffs.
The officers then stepped back as the orange jumpsuit moved toward her, and for the first time she looked up at his face, at her father. He had the same dark brown eyes that had intimidated her as a child, the same large, sharp jaw, and the same large, masculine nose that always reminded her of Robert De Niro. But he also looked different. He had lines on his face that showed the passage of time; his skin was no longer tight and youthful but hung slightly under his chin; and his brown hair was now speckled with white.
He smiled at her as he took a seat, and Tara could feel the tiny hairs on her arms suddenly stand up. It was the smile that had given her nightmares, that had always stuck in her mind. It was the smile he had given her as a child as he stood over her mother’s body.
He reached for the phone, and Tara did the same. Her hand was slick with sweat, and she held the phone tightly in her grip.
They sat quietly for a moment, both unsure of how to even start a conversation, but then he spoke.
“Tara,” he said in one exhale, like a sigh of relief to be able to say her name.
He stared at her a moment, studying her face. A look of pain momentarily washed over him. Tara knew it was because she was grown. It signified how many years he hadn’t seen her. After all, she was six years old the last time she saw him, when he was charged with her mother’s murder, and she was now twenty-five. But she also knew it was because of the woman she’d grown into. When her grandmother was alive, she’d told her many times how much she resembled her mother. She had her green eyes, her long lashes, her petite little nose, and her olive skin. She could see that her father saw it too. He knitted his eyebrows, and his mouth hung slightly open as he studied her face—it was shock and sadness.
His eyes momentarily fell, and then he looked toward her again. “Well, how are you?”
Her hand that gripped the phone shook slightly. “Fine.”
A smile formed on his face, and Tara could feel anger rise within her. He had a look of satisfaction, a moment of happiness, but he didn’t deserve even a fraction of it. She wished she could slap the look off his face. It felt like a betrayal that she caused it—her mother’s daughter. Her stomach twisted into a knot at the thought. What would her mother think if she saw this moment? Would she be hurt? Would she feel betrayed?
A fire swirled within her, but then she felt his eyes studying her, and she remembered her purpose. It’s not betrayal, she reminded herself. I’m here for the truth. My mom would want me to dig deep and find it. At that thought, she knew that making him feel flickers of happiness was exactly what she needed to do. She needed him to feel comfortable. She relaxed slightly in her chair.
“How are you?” she finally replied. He smiled again, and Tara quickly extinguished her natural emotional response.
He shrugged. “As good as I can be,” he started and then hesitated, as if afraid to speak what he was about to say. “But I have to say, my day just got a lot better,” he finally added.
An awkward silence fell around them. That’s odd, Tara thought. To see him not drunk or angry.
She knew he wanted to ask her why she was here, but he didn’t want to ruin the moment, and she let him enjoy it.
“So, what have you been up to in here?” she asked. It was a stupid question. What could anyone be up to in prison? But she had to keep the conversation going, and she didn’t want to be the subject of it.
He let out a chuckle. “Well, just trying to keep busy,” he started. “I get my plumbing license renewed every year, so that’s something I help out with around here.”
Tara nodded. Her dad had been a plumber. She clearly remembered him coming home each day, his clothes tattered and stained, as he reached for a beer in the fridge before wanting anyone to say a word to him.
“They try to give us each a job around here,” he added. “Certainly saves them a few bucks.” He smiled. “But I can’t complain. I’d rather be doing that then lying in my cell all day.”
Tara nodded again.
“But enough about me, what about you?” he asked. “You working? Married yet?”
His eyes moved to her finger wrapped around the phone, and she suddenly felt vulnerable.
She shook her head. “I’m working, but not married yet.” She didn’t want to go into detail. She didn’t want to tell him about John, about how good he was to her. It would bring him too much joy.
“Where do you work?” he asked as he stared at her with eager eyes.
She shifted slightly in her seat. She didn’t know if she should tell him, and she felt a slight panic wash over her. She knew if she told him the truth, he would be less likely to confide in her about the details of the night of her mother’s murder.
“I’m an accountant,” she replied. It was the first occupation that popped into her head because of John.
“Ahh, a number cruncher.” He sat back in his chair, letting his body relax. “Good for you, Tara.”
Tara forced a smile as the room fell silent.
He suddenly stiffened, moving closer to the window, as if about to tell a secret. “You know, I was surprised to hear you wanted to see me…after all these years.” He met Tara’s eyes, clearly hoping she would reply before he had to ask the question. But she didn’t. “What made you want to?”
Tara’s mouth was dry. This was it: it was time to ask. A moment of doubt seeped into her mind. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should just go. But then she remembered the promise to herself. She couldn’t allow herself to leave unless she asked.
“Dad, I have to ask you something.” It was her first time addressing him as “Dad” since she was a child, and it tasted sour rolling off her tongue. But she knew she had to. She couldn’t be cold to him if she wanted him to give her an answer.
He raised his eyebrows, waiting, but she could see a tinge of worry in his eyes.
“I’ve been having these dreams,” she started. “About Mom…about you.”
He stiffened. “About what?” he asked, loud and proud. He was trying to play dumb, but Tara could see the complete panic in his eyes. He wouldn’t blink; he wouldn’t dare lose focus with her. He was afraid to miss the slightest hint of what would come next.
His reaction fueled her. He was afraid she would bring something up, she could feel it, and it only solidified her desire to ask.
She leaned in closer. “It’s always about the night it happened,” she started, being careful how she worded it. “When we lost Mom,” she added.
Small beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, but she was careful not to look at them. She knew her father would never be receptive if he felt he was being attacked or purposely made to feel uncomfortable.
Tara swallowed hard. “It always starts out with me in the closet, but then I come out and I see you in the living room, standing over Mom. But you whisper something to the corner of the room, which I couldn’t see. It almost seems as if someone was—”
She was about to say “there” but he abruptly spoke. “Dreams are dreams, Tara,” he spat with annoyance. “I don’t think I can help you. I’m not a psychologist.” He looked toward a camera in the corner of the room and waved at it, signaling he was done with the meeting.
Tara began to panic. She knew he heard what she was trying to say, that someone was in the room, and now he was acting odd. She was on the brink of something; she could feel it.
“Wait,” she said as an officer began to open the door. “It’s not just a dream. It’s a memory. Someone was in the room, I—”
Her father stood up. “We’re done here,” he uttered as the officer entered the room and began to place the cuffs on him.
Tara stood up. She knew now; there was something suspicious about that night. There was someone there. He wouldn’t be acting this way if there weren’t.
“Who are you protecting?” she yelled. “Who else was there?”
Her father acted as if he hadn’t heard, but she knew her voice was still slightly audible through the glass. The officer looked at her for a split-second, but then her father leaned in closer, whispering in his ear. As he pulled back, the officer nodded. It was clear that her father was telling him he wanted to leave the room now, that he didn’t want to reply to her, and he got what he wished. The officer led him to the door, reached for the knob, and was soon escorting him through the threshold. The door slammed shut behind them.