“Oh Jet, good you are here,” she said.

Jet smiled and placed her food in front of her. She always did get right to the point.

“Hello Margo, it’s lunch time,” he said, trying to distract her.

“I don’t have any time for lunch. I’m working on a deadline, as you know. My editor wants my final draft by the end of the day. It’s a mess, too. I’ve got to finish up the drawings,” she said as she returned to her work.

“How’s your book coming?” he asked.

“Oh, just wonderfully!” she said as she showed him part of her work.

“Is this the Valentine's Day themed one?” He asked.

“Yes, and if I want it out next Valentine’s Day, it’s got to go in today or it waits another full year,” she said as she took a sip of the drink Jet brought her. He always knew what she liked.

“What’s this one about again? I mean, apart from Valentine’s Day?” Jet asked.

“You really are the worst assistant,” she scolded him, but kept smiling. Jet had been with her for nearly five years now and he’d never let her down. She often teased him about needing weekends off, but she genuinely liked him and it’s hard to find someone like that in the city, especially someone so dedicated. She wished he was around every day.

“It’s about a family of bears,” she started.

“Ahh yes, like goldilocks,” He asked with a smile knowing it would bug her.

“No, there’s no goldilocks,” she laughed. “It’s about a little family of bears who have just woken up from hibernation just in time for Valentine’s Day.”

“That’s a cute premise,” Jet agreed.

“Isn’t it? One by one she is going to wake up her baby bears by bringing them a special treat. See look here,” she showed him her drawings with such pride as she explained each scene and the story behind it. “The first baby loves red berries so she will bring her the berries and cuddle her until she wakes up for her treat. Then, she will cuddle her little baby boy bear until he wakes up and she will give some honey.”

As she shared the story with Jet, couldn’t help but be impressed by the artistic wonder of her drawings. She was a gifted and well-known artist and author who had sold thousands of true crime books. Her artwork, featuring scenes of the small fishing town where she’d grown up, had been shown in galleries around the world. The sudden switch she’d made about five years ago was almost inexplicable and although her sole focus now was on children’s stories, she had yet to sell a single book.

“I know I’ve written other children’s books, but I think this one really has something,” she said. “There’s just a sweetness in the mama bear as she tends to her babies. I think that will resonate with everyone from children to their parents. I think this is some of my best work.”

“You’ve clearly been working hard on it,” Jet agreed.

“I hope it does well. I long for the days of a book tour. I know that’s hardly done for children’s books, but maybe even something locally, you know, just to get me out there again,” she said hopefully.

Jet seemed unenthused and it didn’t escape her notice.

“You don’t like it,” she said sadly.

“I guess it’s the pictures. It’s just a lot of red, Margo” Jet said.

“Well, it’s a Valentine’s Day theme. Do you think I’ve gone too far? I was trying to do a monochrome theme in reds and pinks. Maybe too many hearts?” She pondered as she looked back at her drawings.

“I don’t know, maybe? You know I’m no good at this,” he answered. It was clear he didn’t want to tell her why he didn’t like the drawings.

“Jet, you can tell me the truth. Is it too much?” she asked seriously.

“Yeah, it’s too much for me,” Jet answered, and he could see the darkness come over her so he searched for a way to soften what he’d just said. “But what do I know? I can’t even draw a stick figure, let alone draw something like this. We both know I can’t write, and I can’t draw. I’m really no good to you.”

He smiled and the darkness left her again.

“I don’t know why you ever applied for a job as my assistant. You’re right, of course. You aren’t artistic. Maybe some of this goes above your head. You don’t even write yourself. How can I bounce ideas off you if you are not a writer?” she laughed as she took a bite of her lunch.

“I may not be a writer, but I can read,” he laughed as he overlooked her barely veiled insult.

“Yes, you can. Everyone can read,” she agreed. “But you know, to write is something special. To share your heart and soul on paper, that’s wonderful. You really should try. I think you have something to say. In fact, Frank McCourt said Everyone has a story to tell. All you have to do is write it.”

“Who is he again?” He was back to teasing. She’d used the quote many times as she tried to convince Jet to write.

“Sacrilege!” She exclaimed. “He’s the Irish author who wrote Angela’s Ashes. I’ve told you this so many times. You know, at the absolute very least, one should journal daily, at a minimum. A solid, daily commitment to writing is really the only way to get better at the craft.”

“You sound like my tenth-grade high school English teacher, Margo. Better be careful, I didn’t like him,” Jet joked and chuckled in response.

“Now, tell me, when are you going to write your book?” She asked him with a tone that almost compelled an answer.

“I don’t know. I guess maybe I’ve been thinking about it more lately. Maybe I will look at taking some night school classes in creative writing,” he lied. He had no intention of writing or taking classes, but it might distract her from badgering him over it. It might even make her happy to think he might write. These little lies were part of the game he played to placate her.

“I fully support anyone furthering their education but you, my friend, are close personal friends with a bestselling author,” she said with a flourish as she took an exaggerated bow. “Me! I’d be happy to look over your work and offer you a critique and advice. I’d even introduce you to my agent if you’d like. You know, if I felt your work was good enough.”

“I don’t know if your agent would be interested,” he said. She was an intuitive person and she quickly realized that she’d obviously made him uncomfortable. He knew she couldn’t introduce him to anyone, and he suspected that somewhere inside her, she knew it, too.

“Jet, I promise you that agents are interested in talented authors. I think you could be a good author.” she insisted, “now, tell me what you’d write about,” she said as she took another bite of her lunch. She clearly wasn’t going to let it go today.

“I don’t know,” he said, obviously feeling awkward.

“It’s just me,” she insisted. “tell me. What would you write about?”

He thought for a moment and wondered what he should really tell her. Funnily enough, he did have a story that would probably make a good book, but he wondered how she’d react if she heard about it. He was thinking about his father. His dad spent years in prison thanks to his gang ties. He’d killed someone. Jet didn’t even really know him growing up, but his father’s actions and their lasting impact on Jet is what inspired him to choose his career. It probably would make a good book, but not one he’d share with her.

“I think I’d write about my dad,” Jet said softly. “We didn’t, well, I mean he wasn’t around a lot when I was a kid.”

“A father and son story is as old as time and can be so powerful. The parent child relationship resonates with everyone. I bet your story is worth telling,” she said, wagging her finger at him as she continued trying to encourage honest exploration of the topic. She decided to approach cautiously and was very careful not to pry. It was obvious Jet was not ready to talk about it. She might ask a few probing questions here and there to persuade him to open up over time. She felt confident that he would eventually.

She loved to encourage writers. It was her favourite thing about book signings and oh how she missed signing autographs. Opening the front cover of her book and asking the owner’s name was intoxicating. She’d developed a signature with a carefully stylized M. When she sold her first book, she had endlessly practiced her autograph. She knew it was such an egotistical thing to do, but she was so proud. Those were such happy days.

“Jet, sometimes you have to just do what you didn’t think possible because it simply needs to be done. My mother teased me about writing, but just look at me! I became a writer anyway. I did it in spite of her but think of what it could have been if she was a better mother. People can do so much with a good mother behind them,” she declared.

Her words came with such irony and he wondered if she even realized it.

“Yeah that’s probably true,” Jet said sadly. He could see the darkness overtaking her face again. “You done with lunch?”

“Yes I am. It was delicious, as always,” she said. “My compliments to the chef.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him,” Jet said as he took her tray.

“You’ll come back tomorrow?” She asked, sounding like she was begging him to commit to return as she heard the lock engage. She hated their goodbyes.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Jet promised. She reached out through the bars, touched his hand and smiled. Jet jumped back as if he’d been electrocuted.

Jet looked repulsed by the feel of her touch, and it was obvious she noticed. She let go of him immediately and her demeanor changed with the smile having left her face. Her eyes narrowed and she and Jet just looked at each other. At that moment, they were both faced with such brutal honesty about the other person that neither of them needed to say anything.

Jet felt unable to move until Margo looked away from him. She wrapped her hands around the bar and forced a smile.

“Some other time, perhaps,” she said with such overt politeness that it couldn’t be anything but fake.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Margo,” Jet said kindly. As he walked away, he used the hand sanitizer he kept in his pocket on the way to the washroom to wash his hands.

From behind him, he could hear Margo chatting away to her pictures. His heart was racing. He didn’t like her touching him especially considering she’d been working on her pictures all morning.

When he returned from the washroom, he walked back to the food tray cart where his coworker, Joe, was standing having just put another meal tray in it.

“That there,” Joe said, pointing to Jet’s hand, “that’s why I don’t go near her.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jet said as he flexed his hand as, remembering her touch.

“Why do you encourage her?” Joe asked as Jet returned her tray to the cart.

“It makes her happy to think she is still writing. If she’s happy, she’s easier to handle,” Jet answered.

“Should she be happy? I mean do we care if she’s happy? She killed her entire family,” Joe said incredulously.

“She’s not criminally responsible,” Jet corrected his coworker.

“She still did it,” Joe said, and Jet nodded in agreement.

“And don’t you think it’s creepy?” Joe continued, “The stuff she was saying today? Just evil, man.”

“Which part?” Jet asked, but he knew the answer.

“You know. About the bears. I heard it all. She talks loud enough,” Joe said as he scraped food off another tray, letting the waste drop in the compost bin.

“Yeah ok, that part was creepy,” Jet agreed.

“She poisoned both the kids, you know,” Joe said.

“Yes, I know all about it,” Jet had read all the news stories about her when they found out she was being transferred to their institution. They didn’t like calling it a prison. Institution had a nicer, more therapeutic ring to it, and it was more appropriate considering the inmates here were all receiving psychiatric care.

Margo Campagne was a bestselling author and renowned artist who had been convicted of killing her husband and children. The kids, a son and a daughter, were both poisoned. She served them berries mixed with honey to hide the taste of the poison. When her husband returned home and discovered the children dead, she shot him with his own hunting rifle.

The next day, her agent, who had a scheduled meeting with her, arrived to find her gently trying to wake up her children. The agent ran screaming from the house and called authorities.

“She’s sick, man. You know her. You’ve talked to her. There’s something broken inside her, inside her mind. You think she would have done it if she was ok?” Jet said.

“Maybe she just wanted to live out those books she used to write,” Joe said.

“No,” Jet said looking back at Margo who had returned to creating her pictures, “that isn’t her anymore.”

“I don’t know how you can watch her eat with the blood on her fingers like that. It’s so gross,” Joe said and physically shook with disgust as he watched Margo work.

“It’s from her dragging her fingers across the cement walls. She thinks the blood is ink. I don’t even think she feels pain from it,” Jet said sadly. “I just try not to think of it as blood.”

“She’s ripping apart her fingertips so she can draw on her walls. With blood,” Joe said, thoroughly disgusted.

“They won’t give her pencils and pens anymore since she tried to stab Jenelle that time,” Jet said without taking his eyes off Margo as she added rocks around the bear cave she was drawing on her wall.

“That time!” Joe scoffed. “You say it like it was no big deal.”

“There’s so much on the walls this time. They will medicate her and clean it up soon,” Jet concluded. They would also bandage her hands and restrain her to allow her hands to heal.

“I like when she’s drugged up. She’s quiet then,” Joe laughed. They could hear her nattering away in her cell.

“Unpopular opinion. I think deep down inside of her, she is sorry. Whatever sane part of her is left, I don’t think she can face what she’s done. I think it’s why she only writes her children’s stories now. Somewhere inside her, I think she has remorse,” Jet said sadly.

“I don’t think she even remembers them,” Joe said.

“Maybe not, but her books before were always about murderers and serial killers. After,” Jet paused and decided to avoid saying what she’d done again. He didn’t like to think about it. The husband was bad enough, but the kids were only three and five. That’s hard for anyone. “Anyways, all her stories since she’s been here have all been children’s stories. All her characters love each other so much. I like to think that somewhere inside her, the love for her family is still there. In her own way, I think she’s all about love.”