Chapter 6 Knox
KNOX
Words on a page were the only connection I had to my daughter these days.
I sat at the small fixed desk in my cell, hunched over the thin prison-issued paper, analyzing every word like it might be the last she’d ever read from me.
Fourteen years of letters, and not a single one mailed. My penmanship had improved over the years, but it still looked like a drunk toddler had gotten hold of a pen. I could only hope that someday, if Gwen ever read these, she’d be able to decipher my chicken scratch.
The concrete walls radiated cold. And the letter in front of me… it was the only warmth I had left.
“Got to say,” Ronan’s voice cut through the quiet, “it was satisfying as hell, watching the way Doyle’s goons cowered from you today.”
I didn’t look up. “They weren’t cowering.”
“Dude.” Ronan swung his legs over the edge of his bunk, the metal frame groaning in protest. “Did you see the way they backed down? If we’d been a pack of wolves, they would’ve had their heads down, asses up, tails tucked, backing away like you were about to rip their throats out.”
I kept my eyes on the paper, my pen hovering over the last line. “It won’t last. Doyle’s been wanting to challenge me ever since he arrived. This just gave him a reason to try harder.”
“He knows you’re the baddest motherfucker in this place.”
“It’s a medium-security prison.” I stared at my letter. “That’s not exactly a high bar.”
“Well, today, you just solidified the reputation.” Ronan jumped down from his bunk, landing with a thud that echoed off the concrete. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “You beat his fucking ass, and you barely have a scratch on you.”
I scrubbed a hand over my stubbled jaw. The rough scratch of it grounded me, kept me from thinking too hard about the look in Harper’s eyes when she’d treated me.
Those eyes. God, they were the only other set that had ever stopped me cold. The first belonged to my daughter.
Ronan’s gaze dropped to my hands. To the gauze wrapped tight around my knuckles, already spotting through with fresh blood.
“You’re bleeding again.”
“It’s fine.”
“Does that nurse know you’re up here, undoing all her work?” He nodded toward my fists. “Because those bandages looked a lot cleaner when you walked out of the infirmary.”
I said nothing. Just flexed my fingers beneath the gauze, testing the pull of it.
Intentionally. The thought drifted through my mind. If the stitches came undone, I’d get to see her again.
Ronan studied me for a beat too long. “You know what’s wild? I’ve been your cellmate for three years. Seen you handle a lot of shit. But I’ve never actually watched you fight before today.”
“Lucky you.”
“I’m serious.” He dropped onto his bunk, springs creaking. “Everyone talks about what you did to Smith like it’s a fucking campfire story. I always figured it was half-exaggerated bullshit.” He paused. “It wasn’t, was it?”
I set my pen down. Slowly. “I’m trying to write a letter, Ronan.”
“I know. But I just watched you put Doyle on the ground in under ten seconds, and you didn’t even look like you were trying.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So, now I’m sitting here, wondering what Smith actually looked like when you were done with him.”
I sighed, the sound heavy enough to carry years of exhaustion.
If this were anyone else, I wouldn’t bother answering.
But Ronan had the unfortunate circumstance of being assigned as my cellmate, and somehow, against all odds, he’d made my time here a little more bearable.
He rarely pried into my personal life. He respected my privacy.
Looking back, that was pretty noble of him. If I’d been assigned to share a cell with the inmate who had the worst reputation in the penitentiary, I probably would’ve demanded an explanation on day one.
He’d earned a real answer.
“Shortly after I arrived,” I began, stretching my fingers out, then curling them back into loose fists, “there were a handful of inmates trying to assert their dominance over me. Egging me on. Trying to bait me into fights. Typical prison politics.”
Ronan nodded, already invested. “And you kept your head down.”
“Until I didn’t.”
The memory surfaced like something crawling up from dark water. I didn’t fight it.
“Smith was a child predator.” A lot of people on the outside didn’t understand, but in here, there was a code. “You never fuck with children. Ever.” I met Ronan’s eyes. “So, when a predator shows up, he’s in for a long stay.”
“The longest,” Ronan agreed, his voice losing some of its usual humor.
“The only reason Smith survived as long as he did was because he learned to play weak. Laugh things off. Stay invisible.” I leaned back on the metal stool, the cold seeping through my prison-issued shirt.
“But men like him, it doesn’t take long for them to grow complacent.
One day, he started bragging about what he’d done to those kids.
Bragging. How easy it was. How the parents never noticed.
How many times he got away with it before he got caught.
” The words tasted like acid in my mouth.
“He thought no one would act on it. He was wrong.”
I remembered the cafeteria. The noise. The smell of overcooked food and industrial cleaner. The way Smith’s voice had carried across the room, casual, as if he were discussing the weather.
“I didn’t interrupt him. Didn’t threaten him.” I rubbed a hand over the buzzed sides of my hair, the familiar texture calming something feral inside me. “I just stood up.”
Ronan leaned forward. “And?”
“Closed the distance in three seconds. First strike disabled him completely.” I paused. “The rest was a blur.”
“The thing everyone talks about,” Ronan said quietly, “is that you didn’t look angry. That’s what scared them the most.”
I said nothing. Because he was right. I hadn’t been angry. I’d been something far worse. Calm.
“Smith suffered severe internal injuries. Nearly bled out before the guards pulled me off.” I looked down at my hands. The same hands that had written letters to my daughter for over a decade. “If they hadn’t intervened, he would’ve died.”
“And that’s what everybody knows,” Ronan said slowly, like he was only now putting it together. “That you would’ve finished it.”
I nodded once.
“So, how the hell are you still up for parole?”
“Smith survived. Barely, but legally, that matters. Plus, the witnesses wouldn’t testify against me.
No one was willing to defend a child predator, so suddenly, there wasn’t a single inmate who could recall exactly what went down.
Some claimed he provoked me. And once the guards intervened, I stopped.
I didn’t fight them. So, I was punished internally.
Solitary. But without witnesses, without Smith having any memory of what happened, it was chalked up to a prison fight. No additional time on my sentence.”
Ronan let out a low whistle. “So, it was a single act. One fight. And that’s all it took to become a legend.”
I picked up my pen again, turning it between my fingers. “Everyone saw what I was capable of. That I wouldn’t hesitate. That I had a code, and if someone crossed it, consequences didn’t matter to me.”
“And today, Doyle crossed it.”
I thought about Harper. About the tiny scar she thought no one noticed. About the way she flinched. And I shuddered, imagining what Doyle would’ve done to her if he’d gotten the chance.
“Yeah,” I said. “He crossed it.”
Ronan was quiet for a long moment. Then, softer than I expected: “You know, for a guy who’s in here for murder, you’re kind of a softy.”
I glared at him.
He held up his palms. “Just saying. You’re over there, writing love letters to your kid like some kind of Hallmark dad.”
“It’s not a love letter.”
“Does it say I love you at the end?”
I said nothing.
“Hallmark dad,” Ronan confirmed with a smug nod. He tilted his chin toward the paper. “You gonna mail that one?”
The question hit harder than he probably intended. I looked down at the letter. The words I’d agonized over for the past hour. The penmanship I’d spent years improving, just in case.
“No.”
Ronan was quiet. Then: “Why do you write them every week if you never mail them?”
I finished the last line. Set the pen down. Folded the paper carefully, pressing the creases sharp.
Why did I write them?
Because words on a page were the only connection I had to my daughter. Because someday, maybe, she’d read them. Maybe she’d understand.
Maybe she’d forgive me.
I set the folded letter beneath my mattress and leaned back against the cold wall.
Ronan had called me the baddest motherfucker in this place. Ten minutes after that, he’d called me a Hallmark dad.
Both were true. That was the thing no one understood about me: I could be the most dangerous man in a room and still lose sleep over the right word in a letter to my kid.
And now there was a new contradiction I couldn’t explain: a woman who worked inside these walls, who should’ve looked at me and seen nothing but a killer, had instead looked at my hands and treated them like they were worth saving.
And damn if that didn’t do something to my ribs I couldn’t name. Couldn’t understand.
I pressed my thumb harder against the gauze until I felt the first stitch give.
Just one.
Just one. That was enough for now—but by morning, I’d have a reason to be back in her infirmary.