49. Thomas
Chapter 49
Thomas
(1 Year Later)
The metal springs of my prison bunk dig into my back as I stare at the concrete ceiling. My cellmate's snoring fills our eight-by-ten home, but sleep won't come. All I can think about is her. Tatum. The wife I never deserved and now I'm in here for supposedly killing her. I didn't of course. But I'd kill to know who did. She didn't deserve that. She didn't deserve a lot of the shit I put her through.
"Yo, Senator Pretty Boy," a gruff voice calls from the cell across the way. "Your wife was fine as hell. Shame what happened to her."
My jaw clenches but I stay silent. That's what you learn quick in here - keep your mouth shut. A far cry from my days commanding attention on the Senate floor.
"What's wrong, rich boy? Cat got your tongue?" Another inmate chimes in. "Bet that designer suit don't feel so good now, huh?"
I roll onto my side, trying to block them out. But they're right. My $3000 suits are replaced with orange polyester that chafes my skin. My Rolex is gone. My perfectly styled hair has been shaved. I'm nobody in here.
"Hey!" A guard bangs his baton against the bars. "Quiet down!"
The taunting stops but my thoughts continue racing. I was such a fool. Getting mixed up with the mob, treating Tatum like she was disposable, thinking I was untouchable. Now I'm serving 25 to life and serving slop to murderers and rapists. The mighty Senator Thomas Cope reduced to a lunch lady.
If only I could go back and do it all differently. Maybe show Tatum some respect instead of treating her like shit. But it's too late now. I'm stuck in this hellhole, and she's no longer here.
My legacy is ruined. My life is over. And I have no one to blame but myself.
The guard's keys jangle as he approaches my cell. "Cope, visitor."
"I'm not expecting anyone." My voice sounds foreign after days of silence.
"Mrs. Rachel Thompson. Says she's your cousin's wife."
I don't have a cousin, let alone one who's married. But anything beats staring at these walls. "Fine."
The guard leads me through the maze of corridors to the visitation room. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead as I take my seat at the metal table. Through the scratched plexiglass, a blonde woman sits opposite me. Designer sunglasses cover half her face despite being indoors. Her hand rests on a prominent baby bump beneath a flowing sundress.
"You must have the wrong person ma'am. I don't know any Rachel Thompson."
She leans forward, lowering her glasses just enough that I catch a glimpse of familiar green eyes. My stomach drops.
"Hello, Thomas. I always pictured what you would look like if I put nair in your shampoo bottle."
"Tatum?" The word comes out as a whisper. "But you're..."
"Dead?" She pushes the glasses back up. "That was the point."
My hands shake as I grip the edge of the table. "How..."
My mouth goes dry as I stare at her through the scratched plexiglass. She's glowing - actually glowing - and that baby bump...
"You're… pregnant? She doesn't even acknowledge my question.
"How are you enjoying your new accommodations?" Tatum traces a manicured finger along the glass between us. "The orange really brings out your eyes."
"You set me up." My hands clench into fists beneath the metal table.
"Oh honey, you set yourself up." She leans back, adjusting her designer sunglasses. "I just helped push you over the edge you were already teetering on."
"With those three thugs?" I spit the words out. "Really? That's what you left me for?"
A small smile plays at her lips. "Left you? No, darling. You pushed me right into their arms. All three of them." She emphasizes the last part, watching my reaction. "And let me tell you, they know how to treat a woman. No comments about my eating, no two pump rodeos."
The metal handcuffs bite into my wrists as I lean forward. "You whore. So you're living with all three of them?"
"Mhmm. Playing house, as you might say. Though there's nothing pretend about it." She rubs her belly meaningfully. "They take such good care of me. Unlike someone who couldn't even notice when I was missing for real."
"I paid the fucking ransom," I protest weakly.
"After how many days? And only because it would look bad for your image?" She shakes her head.
"I heard everything you said Thomas, I was there, in the house." She leans towards the glass. "Face it, you never cared about me. I was just arm candy for your political career. Well now you can rot in here while I live my best life with three men who actually appreciate me."
My blood boils as I surge up from my chair, the metal legs screeching against the concrete floor. "You manipulative little?—"
"Sit down, Cope!" The guard's hand clamps down on my shoulder, forcing me back into the seat.
"Oh Thomas, still can't control that temper." Tatum adjusts her designer glasses with a smirk. "By the way, tell Mom and Dad I said hi when they arrive. They should be here any day now."
"What are you talking about?"
"Someone may have tipped off the feds about their... creative accounting practices. And those offshore accounts? Tsk tsk." She stands, smoothing her sundress over her belly. "Guess the family that commits fraud together, stays together. Well, in adjacent cells anyway."
"You wouldn't fucking dare?—"
"Already did, darling. Consider it payback for selling their daughter to the highest bidder." She blows me a kiss through the glass. "See ya!"
"Guards! Let me out of here!" I thrash against the restraints as two officers grab my arms. "You can't do this to me!"
"Time's up, Cope." They drag me toward the door as Tatum sashays away, her heels clicking on the linoleum floor.
"I'll get you for this!" My voice echoes through the visitation room. "You hear me? This isn't over!"
"Keep moving," the guard grunts, shoving me forward.
The last thing I see before they haul me away is Tatum's perfectly manicured hand waving goodbye.