The story so far:
Paige and I said little as we entered our air-conditioned home out of the now 93 degree heat. Paige's cramps had subsided, but they were still causing her some discomfort. She took two Midol caplets and went upstairs to her room to take a nap. It was 11:30 and, after the morning's events thus far, I was thankful that I had Methra clear the rest of the day's appointments. I was now physically and emotionally exhausted. I made my way to my own room, pulled on a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt, and collapsed on the end of my bed. Despite my fatigue, my mind raced. Was it a coincidence that the now deceased Nona Flores had had a 9:00 appointment to talk with me that morning, only to meet her untimely demise hours before? What was I to make of my vision the night before, which eerily coincided with the method and location in which Nona was murdered? And, most importantly, who had called from Paige's school minutes after I had been disconnected from the school's secretary, telling me to honor my father and mother? While the school secretary had access to parents' contact information, it was only used in case of emergency. Did someone else have access to this contact information and, if so, who was it and why had they called me with that message? "Too many questions, no answers," I heard myself say aloud. Before I knew it, I had drifted...
...to a small windowless room. In the middle of the room was a square metal table, which reflected the flourescent light fixture mounted on the ceiling above. On either side of the table were two metal stools that had been bolted to the cement floor. On the far wall was a mirror, and to the left of the mirror was a large steel sliding door with a wire-mesh window in its center. "This looks like an interview room in a pri--" I started, only to be silenced by the sound of approaching voices and a clanking sound. Panicking, I whirled around trying to find a hiding place. In the midst of my search, which was futile considering I was in a room with no extra furniture, I found myself in front of the mirror. The peculiar thing was, although I was gazing in the mirror, my reflection was not gazing back at me. It was as if I only existed in the air and not in physical form. Instinctively, I looked down to validate the presence of my hands and feet. Nothing. I was, in all practicality, invisible. Relieved and stunned, I looked up just as the large steel door clanked and then opened, revealing a tall, gray-haired man of about 65 years of age, wearing a priest black uniform and white collar. "Father Preston?" I heard myself exclaim aloud, immediately rushing to cover my mouth after the words exited my lips. Behind the slim man was a middle-aged prison guard, fully-equipped with a gun, handcuffs and a walkie-talkie on his belt. Behind the guard was a dark-haired man with deeply-tanned, leathery skin in a orange jumpsuit, shackles on both his wrists and ankles and standard-issue prisoner black flip flops. If I had to make a guess based on his features alone, I would have thought the prisoner was in his late 40s or early 50s. The men entered the room: the first guard posted himself on the inside of the steel door, Father Preston and the shackled prisoner took the stools at the table, and the second guard pulled the steel door closed and locked it. A voice came out of nowhere saying that the two men had 20 minutes, and that their conversation would be monitored. Father Preston rested his Bible on the table, reached across to grasp the prisoner's shackled hands in his, and said, "It's good to see you, Miguel. I come with good news--I have done what you have asked."
If I could see my knees, they would have been trembling. If I could see my hands, they would have been sweating uncontrollably. I could feel my saliva thicken and my stomach churn while I listened in horror as the priest, in plain sight of the guard, described to a tee what I had seen in my vision the night before, discreetly using various Bible verses to describe how Nona Flores was kidnapped, brought to the cave, and crucified.