THE PRISONER'S MESSAGE
1552 Words
The envelope arrived on a Tuesday.
No return address. No postmark. Just Declan's name written in black ink across the front. It had been slipped under the door of his apartment sometime in the night, while he slept.
He found it when he woke up at dawn.
The paper was thick. Expensive. The kind of stationery used by people who had money and wanted everyone to know it.
Inside was a single photograph.
Elias Vance. Standing in a prison yard, his face turned toward the camera, his eyes cold. In his hand was a piece of paper with words written in block letters:
I'M STILL WATCHING.
Declan's blood ran cold.
He turned the photograph over.
On the back, in the same black ink, was a message:
You think you're free. You're not. You never will be. Not as long as I'm breathing.
—E
---
Declan called Reyes immediately.
"I got something in the mail," he said. "A photograph. From Elias."
"From him or from someone on his behalf?"
"His handwriting. His style. His message."
Reyes was quiet for a moment. "Can you send me a picture of it?"
Declan took a photo with his phone and sent it.
"I'll have it analyzed," Reyes said. "But I can tell you right now—there's no way Elias mailed this himself. Prison mail is screened. Everything. Letters, packages, photographs. There's no way this got through without someone seeing it."
"Then someone on the inside sent it for him."
"Or someone on the outside. Someone who still has access to him."
"His lawyers?"
"Possible. Or a visitor. Or a guard." Reyes sighed. "We've been trying to cut off his communication channels for months. Every time we think we've got them all, another one pops up."
"What do I do?"
"Nothing. Don't respond. Don't engage. Don't give him the satisfaction of knowing he got to you."
"Too late for that."
"I know. But do your best."
---
Declan didn't tell Claire about the photograph.
She was still in Oregon with Finn. He didn't want to worry her. Didn't want to ruin the fragile peace they'd built.
But the message ate at him.
I'm still watching.
He found himself checking the windows. The doors. The shadows.
He found himself looking over his shoulder. Jumping at shadows. Waking in the middle of the night, convinced he'd heard something.
The fear was back.
And Elias knew it.
---
Three days later, another envelope.
This one was slipped under his door while he was in the shower. He found it when he came out, dripping wet, a towel around his waist.
Inside was another photograph.
This time, it was a picture of Finn.
Taken from a distance. Through a window. The boy was sitting at a table, eating breakfast, laughing at something off-camera.
Declan's hands shook.
He turned the photograph over.
I know where they are, Declan. Oregon is nice this time of year.
—E
---
Declan called Claire.
"Get Finn and leave," he said. "Now."
"Declan, what's going on?"
"Elias knows where you are. He sent me a photograph. Of Finn. Through a window."
Claire's breath caught. "Oh my God."
"Go to the police. Tell them you need protection. Don't go home. Don't go to a hotel. Go somewhere he wouldn't think to look."
"Where?"
"I don't know. A friend's house. A shelter. Just go."
"What about you?"
"I'm going to find out how he's getting these photographs. And I'm going to stop him."
---
Declan drove to the FBI field office.
Reyes was waiting in the lobby.
"I saw the photograph," she said. "Of your son."
"Then you know why I'm here."
"Come with me."
She led him to a conference room on the fourth floor. The walls were covered in photographs—Elias, his lawyers, his visitors, his guards. A web of connections, written in marker on a whiteboard.
"This is what we're dealing with," Reyes said. "Elias has been building this network for years. Lawyers who look the other way. Guards who accept bribes. Visitors who carry messages."
"Where do the photographs come from?"
"We traced the second one to a printer in Portland. The first one came from a different location—a copy shop outside the city. Whoever is sending them is smart. They're covering their tracks."
"But you have leads?"
"We have suspects." Reyes pointed at a photograph on the wall—a woman in her forties, with dark hair and sharp eyes. "This is Margaret Drew. She's been visiting Elias twice a week for the past six months. Claims she's a cousin. But we ran her background, and she's not on any of his family records."
"Who is she?"
"A former patient. From the early days of the hospital. Before the basement. Before the worst of it." Reyes's voice was hard. "She's been clean for years. No contact with Elias. Then suddenly, she starts visiting him in prison. Every week. Like clockwork."
"You think she's the one sending the photographs?"
"We think she's the one carrying the messages. From Elias to the outside. From the outside to Elias."
"Why would she do that?"
"Because he saved her life. Or at least, that's what she believes. He pulled her out of a suicide attempt. Got her into treatment. Helped her get clean." Reyes shook her head. "She thinks she owes him."
"She does owe him."
"No. She doesn't. She owes herself. She's the one who did the work. She's the one who stayed clean. He just pointed her in the right direction." Reyes turned to face Declan. "We're going to talk to her. Today. I want you there."
"Why?"
"Because you're the reason she's doing this. You're the target. You're the one Elias wants to hurt. If she sees you, maybe she'll understand what she's really doing."
---
Margaret Drew lived in a small apartment on the south side of the city.
The building was old. The hallways smelled like cigarette smoke and despair. Declan followed Reyes up three flights of stairs, his footsteps echoing off the walls.
Reyes knocked on the door.
"Margaret. It's Agent Reyes. We spoke on the phone."
The door opened a crack.
A woman's face appeared in the gap. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. The same face from the photograph.
"What do you want?"
"I want to talk. About Elias. About the photographs you've been sending."
Margaret's eyes flicked to Declan. "Who's he?"
"My name is Declan Cole. Elias has been using you to send me messages. Threats. Photographs of my son."
Margaret's face went pale. "I didn't—"
"You did. Whether you knew it or not." Reyes stepped closer. "We have evidence. The printer in Portland. The copy shop outside the city. Your car on the traffic cameras."
Margaret opened the door.
She looked smaller than her photograph. Thinner. Frailer. Her hands shook.
"I didn't know," she said. "He told me they were letters. Just letters. To his family. To his friends."
"He lied."
"He always lies. I know. But I thought—I thought he'd changed. I thought prison had made him better."
"Prison doesn't make people like Elias better. It just makes them more careful."
Margaret looked at Declan. "I'm sorry. About your son. About the photographs. About all of it."
Declan wanted to be angry. Wanted to scream. Wanted to blame her for the fear, the sleepless nights, the constant watching.
But he looked at her face—at the guilt, the shame, the desperation—and he couldn't.
"I forgive you," he said.
Margaret's eyes filled with tears.
Reyes put a hand on her shoulder. "We're going to need you to come with us. To testify. To tell the court what Elias asked you to do."
"I'll do it. I'll do anything."
"Good. Because we're going to need you."
---
The drive back to the FBI field office was silent.
Declan sat in the back seat, watching the city pass by. Reyes drove. Margaret stared out the window.
"This is my fault," Margaret said finally. "If I hadn't—"
"Elias is the one who manipulated you," Declan said. "He's the one who used you. Don't take the blame for his choices."
"I still feel responsible."
"Feelings aren't facts. You can feel guilty and still be innocent."
Margaret looked at him. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."
"I am."
---
That night, Declan called Claire.
"We found the person who sent the photographs," he said. "She's cooperating with the FBI. She's going to testify."
"Does that mean we're safe?"
"For now. But Elias has other people. Other channels. Other ways to reach me."
"Then what do we do?"
"We stay vigilant. We watch each other's backs. And we don't let him win."
Claire was quiet for a moment.
"Finn wants to talk to you," she said.
A rustle. Then Finn's voice.
"Dad? Are you okay?"
"I'm okay, buddy."
"Mom said a bad man sent you a picture of me."
"She shouldn't have told you that."
"I'm not a baby. I can handle it."
Declan smiled. "I know you can. But you shouldn't have to."
"Are you going to catch the bad man?"
"I'm going to try."
"Good. Because I don't like him. He's mean."
"Yeah. He is."
"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
"I love you too, Finn. More than anything."
- Writer
