Chapter 17 Knox
KNOX
The second Ryker walked through the visitation room doors, I knew I was in for it.
Three and a half weeks. That’s how long it had been since his last visit. He’d been neck deep in some high-profile trial that made the news, which meant I’d had radio silence from the one person who usually wouldn’t shut up about my parole strategy.
But apparently, the trial ended. Because here he was. And from the look on his face, he hadn’t come to celebrate his courtroom victory.
He dropped into the chair across from me like he was about to conduct a cross-examination.
“So”—his voice was low, the voice he probably used in depositions when he already knew the answer—“drove over to Axel’s place after that little group conversation”—he looked at the guard—“I had. You know the one.” He leaned forward, eyes sharp.
“Thought I’d have a chat with him about his recent charitable donations. ”
Charitable donations. Code for contraband. The phone.
“And?”
“And after about ten minutes, he cracked.” Ryker’s jaw tightened. “Told me you’ve been getting Shawshanked.”
I almost laughed. “Shawshanked.”
“His word. Not mine. Apparently, when he visited you a few weeks back, your lip looked like a balloon animal.” Ryker’s voice dropped even lower. “First, busted knuckles. Then a fat lip. Care to explain?”
I leaned back, stretching my legs under the table. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
“Another fight, Knox?” His voice pitched higher, and then he caught himself, glancing around before lowering it again. “We’ve talked about this. You heard the part where you could rack up more charges, correct? That eleven years could become a life sentence if the other guy’s heart stops beating?”
Ryker dragged a hand down his face. In his three-thousand-dollar suit, with his perfectly styled hair and manicured nails, he looked about as out of place in this visitation room as a Rolex at a pawn shop.
Behind us, another inmate muttered to his public defender. Somewhere down the row, a woman cried.
Just another day.
“And speaking of things that could destroy your parole,” Ryker continued, voice barely above a whisper now, “you need to get rid of that gift Axel gave you. Flush it. Bury it. I don’t care. But if anyone finds it, you’re done.”
“No.”
“Knox.”
“I said, no.”
Ryker’s eye twitched. “Do you have any desire to get out of this place? Because between the fights and”—he glanced around again—“the charitable contributions, it’s like you’re actively trying to add years to your sentence.”
I said nothing.
Ryker studied me. Recalibrated. Tried a different angle.
“I also heard from the CO out front that you quit your kitchen job? To become an orderly?”
“I prefer to think of it as a lateral career move.”
“Jesus.” He folded his arms. “Care to explain why the most feared inmate at Coldwater is suddenly playing janitor?”
“There’s a new prison employee. She needs protection.”
“An employee? Female?” Ryker repeated slowly, testing the word like it might mean something other than its literal definition. “Was this employee why you got in that first fight? The one that left you with split knuckles?”
I didn’t deny it.
“And you decided the best way to protect her was to become her personal custodian?”
“Orderly.” I shifted in my chair. The hard plastic dug into my spine. Fourteen years, and I still hadn’t gotten used to the way everything in this place was designed to be uncomfortable.
Ryker stared at me.
I stared back.
“This is about more than just playing hero, isn’t it?” He paused. “Is she why you wanted that gift from Axel?”
I licked my teeth. Said nothing.
“Jesus, Knox.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You ever stop to wonder if maybe the reason you’re constantly trying to help other people is to atone for your guilt?”
My guilt.
Something dark twisted in my gut.
“Because I know you, Knox. You’re a good guy. And deep down, it has to eat at you that you took a life.”
This shit again.
I chewed the inside of my cheek, biting back the words I wanted to say. That I didn’t regret it. That I’d do it again. That some people deserved to stop breathing and the man I killed was one of them.
“You don’t need to step in and play savior to everybody,” Ryker continued. “If you do, you’re risking your freedom.”
“She needed my help.” The words came out harder than I intended. “She doesn’t belong in a place like this.”
Ryker went still.
Evaluated me again.
His posture shifted. Subtle. The kind of change a civilian wouldn’t notice. But I’d spent years reading body language like my life depended on it. Because sometimes it did.
“This is more than just a savior complex,” he said slowly.
I pressed my tongue to the inside of my cheek.
Ryker’s eyes widened. “Fucking hell, Knox. Do you have a crush?”
“A crush?” I snorted. “What are we, twelve?”
“Do you like her?”
“I don’t know her that well.”
“But you’ve been working beside her for how long?”
“Three weeks.” Not counting the first week, when I’d visited her three times for injuries. “That doesn’t mean I know her.”
“And you said she doesn’t belong in a place like this.” Ryker’s voice dropped, turned almost gentle. “Your whole face changed when you said it. I’ve known you for years. I’ve never seen that look.”
The fluorescent light above us flickered. Buzzed. Went steady again.
“What do you know about her?” Ryker asked.
I glanced around the room. Lowered my voice.
“I refuse to have this conversation if I’m just gonna get lectured.”
Ryker studied me for a long moment. I could see him making the calculation. Lawyer versus friend. Strategy versus loyalty.
Finally, he sighed.
“Fine. For the next ten minutes, I’m not your lawyer, and I don’t give a shit about your parole. So, spill.”
I knew that was bullshit. Deep down, all he cared about was my parole. But he was one of my best friends, and I needed to get this off my chest.
I ran a hand over my face and exhaled.
“Truthfully? I don’t know a lot about her.” I paused. Tried to find the right words. “Beyond the obvious—she’s beautiful—I think she’s been through some serious shit in her life. I think someone’s hurt her. Maybe repeatedly. And I think she might’ve come here to get away.”
Ryker’s expression shifted. Softened. “What makes you think someone hurt her?”
“She has a scar.” My voice came out rougher than I meant it to. “And she’s jumpy. Flinches at sounds. When there was a substitute doctor, her body language was like a rabbit sensing a wolf.”
I cracked my knuckles. Slowly. One by one.
“So, is that what attracts you to her? That she’s in a vulnerable position? Some kind of damsel in distress?”
“No.” The word came out clipped. “What I admire about her is how strong she is. When a couple of inmates cornered her, she didn’t back down or cower. She stood up to them.”
I paused, trying to untangle why that moment had lodged itself so deep in my brain.
“She’s an underdog, but she acts like an alpha.
Hard not to respect someone who fights when they have every reason to fold.
” I cracked my knuckles again. “She has every reason to be terrified in here. This place chews people up. But she walks these halls like she owns them, even though she’s surrounded by men who’d eat her alive if given the chance. That takes courage.”
Ryker stayed quiet. Listening.
“And if she got away from some shit?” I continued. “That means she’s a survivor. She didn’t just lie down and take it. She got out. Started over in one of the most hostile environments imaginable.”
I leaned back, staring at a crack in the ceiling.
“Plus, she’s smart. Not just book smart.” She knows exactly how to tend to wounds. Efficient. Precise. No wasted movements. “Pretty sure she was scared of me at first, but she tried not to show it.”
I shrugged, but the gesture felt inadequate for what I was trying to say.
“I don’t know. It’s all of it. She’s this walking contradiction. Soft and hard. Scared and brave. Broken and rebuilt.” I rubbed a hand over my jaw. “When someone’s been beaten down in life and they still keep getting back up? That’s not weakness. That’s the kind of strength most people don’t have.”
Ryker didn’t say anything. I appreciated that. I’m sure there were a ton of words burning on the tip of his tongue that he was holding back.
“Plus,” I added, “she’s witty as hell. The way she talks.
” I shook my head, feeling my mouth threaten to curve.
“Never know what she’s going to say next.
She’s given me little glimpses, like she’s testing whether I can handle it.
I can’t even imagine if her guard went down and she really let herself talk to me. She’s…”
I trailed off.
Intoxicating.
That was the word.
“Jesus,” Ryker breathed. “You realize your face is doing something other than scowling right now? Careful. Your reputation as a pit bull might suffer irreparable damage.”
I couldn’t help it. I chuckled.
“Fucking hell.” Ryker sat back, looking at me like I’d grown a second head. “A laugh too? This woman really has you hooked.”
“I barely know her,” I repeated.
“Yeah, well …” Ryker’s voice went quieter. Almost thoughtful. “I learned recently that sometimes a connection to someone is just there. From the first moment you meet them, something shifts. You can’t really explain it. You can just feel it.”
I considered this. That was a good way to summarize it. From the first moment I met her, there was something I couldn’t quite name.
“Does she feel the same way about you?”
I wish. “Doubt it. But even if she did like me,” I said slowly, “I would never let her be with someone like me.”
Ryker tilted his head. Just waited for me to continue.