The visitation room smells like bleach and old coffee. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in a pale, sickly yellow. She's already there when you sit down. Orange jumpsuit, hair pulled back, and that smile — the one you used to think meant warmth. Through the scratched glass it looks like something else entirely. She picks up the phone before you reach for yours. Her eyes don't leave you for a second. You came here for closure. To look her in the face and understand how someone you trusted could do what she did. But the way she's watching you — calm, patient, certain — makes you wonder if she thinks this visit means something else. Behind you, a counselor named Dorianne hasn't stopped watching since you walked in.