Chapter 34. Ethan
I wait until Liam's breathing is deep and even. Then I get up, step over Jack's outstretched legs, and get to Harry's bunk.
He's lying on his back, glasses off, squinting at me with that look he gets when he knows something interesting is about to happen. Harry can smell opportunity the way dogs smell fear. It's his worst quality and, right now, his most useful one.
"I need to talk to you," I say. Low enough that only he hears. I don’t want to wake Liam up.
Harry puts his glasses on. Studies my face. Whatever he sees there makes him sit up immediately.
"Not here," I say.
We slip into the hallway. It's still Quiet Time, which means the corridor is empty, guards stationed at the ends. They can’t leave the room, but, as a leader, I can. We find the alcove near the bathroom, the dead spot between two cameras. I know every blind spot in this building.
"I want Garrett gone. Not just punished. Gone. Transferred to real detention. Off this campus permanently."
"And you need me because..."
"Because a beating is a write-up. Maybe solitary, maybe a transfer, maybe not. Griff might keep him here with restrictions. It's not enough." I hold Harry's gaze. "But drugs, that's automatic. That's real jail. No appeals, no second chances. He's out."
Harry stares at me for a long moment. Then he looks away, at the floor, and does something I don't expect. He takes his glasses off and cleans them on his shirt. Slowly. Like he's thinking.
"Garrett's a piece of shit," he says. Quietly. Not performing. It’s rare to see him like that. "Liam didn’t deserve that. Nobody does."
I'm caught off guard. Harry doesn't do sincerity. But right now, he looks like what he actually is, a twenty-year-old kid who heard about his roommate getting beaten half to death and didn't know what to do about it.
The moment passes. His smirk returns, and he's Harry again. "So you want me to make sure Garrett's holding when Griff searches his room."
"I want you to make sure there's no doubt."
"He's already got a stash. I've sold to him before. Pills, mostly. Some powder."
"I know. But I want it to be enough that there's no gray area. Enough that Griff has no choice."
Harry is quiet. He runs a hand through his slick black hair, pushes his glasses up again. The calculation is happening, I can see it. But it's different from what I expected. He's not weighing the profit.
"What's in it for me?" he asks, but the way he says it is strange. Almost like he's testing me. Like he’s going to do it either way. I could offer to stop policing his operation. But something about the way he looked at the floor thirty seconds ago makes me try a different approach.
"You owe me, Harry," I say. "Every time you dealt out of our room, every stash I found and didn't report, every time I looked the other way, you owe me for all of it. I never called it in. I'm calling it in now."
His jaw tightens. He knows I'm right.
"And I'm not asking you to do this for me," I say.
"I'm asking you to help Liam. You were there when he got here.
You watched him try to figure this place out.
You played cards with him. You shared your cigarettes with him.
You dragged him off to smoke weed, which was stupid, but you did it because, deep down, he was hurting and you were trying to help him in the only way you know how.
" I pause. "So help him now. For real this time. "
Harry stares at me. His expression cycles through something complicated, annoyance, resistance, and then something underneath both of those that he'd probably rather die than name.
"Jesus Christ, Ethan," he mutters. "You don't have to give me a fucking speech."
"Is that a yes?"
He's quiet for another beat. Then he pushes off the wall and straightens his glasses.
"Yeah. It's a yes. But not because of your little guilt trip.
" He points a finger at me. "Because Garrett is a psycho who jerks off in the showers while staring at people, and the world is better off with him in a cage.
And because Liam is..." He stops. Shrugs, looking uncomfortable.
"He's alright. He's annoying as shit, but he's alright.
He doesn't deserve what happened to him. "
Coming from Harry, that's a love letter.
"And," Harry adds, smirk creeping back, "Garrett got some cash I can use before he’s out of here. So, it's not like I'm doing charity here. Let's not get carried away."
There he is. I smile.
He extends his hand. I take it. His grip is firm, his palm dry. I can’t believe I’m actually going to start liking this guy.
"I'll visit Garrett tonight," Harry says, back to business. "Friendly check-in. See how he's doing. Bring him a care package, pills, a bag, the works. He won't say no. He never does. Guy's got a habit worse than mine ever was." He grins. "By tomorrow morning, his mattress will be a pharmacy."
"It needs to be somewhere they'll find it fast. Under the bed frame."
"Ethan. I've been hiding and planting contraband in this facility for three years. I think I know where to put it."
"Make sure there's no trail back to you."
"Please. There's never a trail back to me. I’m a fucking professional," he winks. "Anything else, boss?"
"Yeah. Don't tell anyone about this. Ever."
"Tell anyone about what?" he says with a grin, and slips back into the room.
I stand in the hallway for a long time. My hands are steady. My breathing is even. I feel nothing, not guilt, not satisfaction, not the rage from earlier. Just a cold, clear focus, like the seconds before a fight when the bell hasn't rung yet, but you already know exactly what you're going to do.
Tomorrow, I go to Griff. Tonight, Harry goes to Garrett. By this time tomorrow, Garrett will be in handcuffs, and Liam will never have to look over his shoulder again.
I go back to the room. Lie in my bunk. Stare at the ceiling.
In the morning, I move fast. Before breakfast, before roll call, before anyone else is even fully awake. I knock once on Griff's door and enter without waiting.
"It was Garrett," I say.
Griff looks up from his desk, coffee mug halfway to his mouth. His green eyes narrow. He sets it down.
"You sure about that?"
"Yes. Liam told me. Garrett got him alone and beat him.
It wasn't the first time either." I swallow.
This next part is the calculation, the gamble.
"And that's not all. Garrett's using. Drugs, at minimum.
I've seen him after lights out, dilated pupils, impaired coordination.
He's got a stash somewhere in his room. I'm certain of it. "
Griff's expression doesn't change, but something shifts behind his eyes. He waits a second, like he’s thinking, then he picks up his desk phone. Dials a three-digit extension.
"I need a security team at dormitory B, room fourteen. Full search."
He hangs up. Looks at me.
"Come with me."
The raid is clinical. Efficient. Garrett and his roommates are taken out of the room to another hallway, to wait, still half asleep. Two guards pull Garrett's bunk apart while Griff stands in the doorway with his arms crossed. I stand behind him, watching.
They find it taped to the underside of the bed frame. A plastic bag containing pills, a smaller bag of white powder, plus a crude pipe fashioned from a hollowed-out pen. More than enough. No gray area.
Garrett is brought from the corridor where they've been holding him. When he sees the contents of his mattress spread across the floor, something flickers across his face.
He's scared. More than scared.
Then he sees me.
His bravado shatters. The tremor starts in his hands, violent enough that he clenches them into fists, but the shaking moves up his arms. His face drains to the color of old milk, every sharp angle standing out.
When his eyes meet mine, I see it: primal terror.
Because he knows. He knows what they've found, and he knows I put this in motion.
His throat works. That arrogant jaw clenches so tight I'm surprised his teeth don't crack. Sweat beads across his forehead despite the cold corridor. When he swallows, it sounds like a man drowning on dry land.
And God, it's delicious. Better than anything I imagined during those dark hours on the edge of Liam's bunk with murder mapping itself behind my eyes.
Because killing Garrett would have been one moment, one explosion, one crack, one silence, and then it would be over.
This is better. He'll sit in a real prison.
For years. No merit points. No rec room.
No therapeutic halfway house. Just concrete and time and the slow understanding that he put himself here.
I want to laugh. I'm fighting it. I know I look unhinged. My hands tremble slightly, not from fear but from the effort of containing what I feel, which is something primal and satisfied and not entirely sane.
They cuff him. Standard protocol for transfer to actual detention. As they lead him down the corridor, he doesn't struggle. Doesn't speak. Just walks, head turning once to look at me over his shoulder.
I let him see my smile.
I see the fear flicker in his eyes one last time. And I savor every second of it.