After a long moment the warden closed the file and said quietly, “Bring the child.”
Three hours later a white van rolled through the outer prison gates. A social worker stepped out holding the small hand of a serious girl with soft brown hair and a face that seemed far older than eight years. Avery Bennett walked down the long corridor between the cells without crying or hesitating. Men behind the bars stopped talking when she passed because there was something strange in the quiet determination of that child, something that made even hardened prisoners fall silent.
When she entered the visiting room she saw her father sitting at a metal table with chains around his wrists and ankles. His prison uniform had faded to a dull orange and his beard had grown thick and uneven, yet the moment he looked up and saw her, tears filled his eyes.
“My little girl,” Victor whispered. “My Avery.”