Chapter 47 Knox
KNOX
Did I expect the parole board to actually grant me freedom today?
No.
Did I want it more than I’d ever wanted anything in my life?
Without question.
I’d spent fourteen years convincing myself that hope was a luxury I couldn’t afford. That wanting something only gave the universe permission to rip it away. So, I’d stopped hoping. Stopped dreaming. Stopped doing anything except existing, one gray day bleeding into the next.
Then Harper walked into my life and wrecked every wall I’d built.
She made me realize there could be a life beyond these walls. A future worth fighting for. And maybe, if I was lucky enough to earn it, that future would include not just her, but my daughter too.
Gwen hated me right now. I knew that. But Harper had taught me something else: Time wasn’t just a thief. It could also be a healer. With enough patience, enough love, maybe my relationship with my daughter wasn’t as doomed as it felt.
But the only way any of that happened was if I got the hell out of this prison.
And for the first time in fourteen years, I could almost taste what freedom felt like.
I still remembered that ambulance ride to Mercy Harbor.
Not the details exactly. Those were fuzzy, lost somewhere between the blows to my skull and the fog of semi-consciousness.
But I remembered the moment they lifted the stretcher out of the ambulance and wheeled me toward the emergency room doors.
For just a second, I’d looked up.
Clear sky. Actual clouds instead of concrete ceilings. Fresh air against my skin that didn’t smell like industrial cleaner and desperation. The sounds of cars and voices and life happening beyond the walls of this godforsaken place.
I had to get out of here.
Never before had I been so nervous about which way a parole hearing would go. Because after everything that had happened recently, I wasn’t sure I could survive another 365 days in this place.
Not without Harper.
And not without the chance to be a father again.
That’s why my heart was pounding loud enough to drown out the clinking of the shackles around my wrists and ankles as I shuffled into the hearing room.
A small conference room located within the prison itself, it looked exactly like I remembered from my previous hearings: beige walls, fluorescent lighting that buzzed just loud enough to be annoying, and the faint smell of stale coffee and bureaucratic indifference.
A long rectangular table dominated the front of the room. Behind it sat three parole board members, each studying the stack of papers in front of them like those pages held the secrets of the universe instead of the details of my sorry life.
Papers with questions that would determine my future.
In front of them, rows of folding chairs, six deep. The cheap metal kind that squeaked against linoleum and left your ass numb after ten minutes.
I scanned the room as I shuffled in.
In the front row sat my sister, Dakota, my father, and in the aisle, my wheelchair-bound mother.
Christ.
It’s not that I didn’t appreciate them coming; it meant more than they’d ever know. But the reason I’d asked them not to come—begged them actually—was because the last two times I’d walked out of this room with nothing, I’d watched something break in them.
I was tired of bringing them fucking pain.
At least whatever happened today, every person in this room would hear the whole truth. For the first time. All of it. If I was going to be denied again, it wouldn’t be because I held back. They all deserved that much.
Hiding the weight pressing against my sternum, I offered them a small smile. The kind that said everything I didn’t have words for: I love you. I’m sorry. Thank you for not giving up on me.
Ryker stood near the front row in his expensive suit, arms crossed over his chest. He gave me a single nod. Steady. Encouraging. The kind of nod that said, You’ve got this, while also acknowledging that we both knew the odds weren’t exactly in my favor.
Just past him, Harper sat at the end of the first row.
She wore a soft blue sweater that made her green eyes look even brighter than usual. When our gazes locked, she offered me a gentle smile. A little wave of her fingers.
My throat tightened. It meant everything that she was here. That no matter which way this went, she’d shown up to stand beside me.
But the real shock came when my eyes drifted to the second row. A familiar set of eyes stared back at me.
Gwendolyn.
The world went sideways. Sound muffled into static. My feet forgot how to move. For a long, suspended moment, I just stood there like an idiot, shackles clinking as my body processed what my brain refused to accept.
My daughter was here. My daughter, who’d looked at me with so much hurt and anger the last time I’d seen her that I’d been certain I’d lost her forever.
She was sitting in this room. In a folding chair. At my parole hearing.
To support me.
After everything I’d done to screw up her life, she’d taken time out of her day to be here. To show up for the father who hadn’t been able to show up for her in fourteen years.
Something cracked open in my chest. Something I’d kept locked down so tight, I’d forgotten it existed.
I must have been staring too long because a corrections officer nudged my shoulder, jolting me back to reality. Right. Hearing. Future. Focus.
I forced my feet to move again, shuffling toward the single chair positioned facing the panel. Each step felt heavier than the last. The shackles around my ankles clinked against the linoleum in a rhythm that sounded too much like a countdown.
As I lowered myself into the chair, I noticed something else.
The seats behind the victim’s side of the room were empty. As they’d always been. You’d think that no matter what the guy did, he’d have family who cared about him. Someone to show up and argue that I should rot in here forever. But there was no one. Just empty folding chairs and silence.
The absence hit me somewhere unexpected. Right in the sternum.
Why? I had no idea. The guy was a monster.
But maybe his family wasn’t. Maybe they were victims too.
I filed that thought away as the woman on the left side of the panel cleared her throat.
She was maybe sixty, with steel-gray hair pulled into a severe bun and pointed glasses that looked like they’d time-traveled from 1962. Her lips were dry and cracked, pressed into a thin line that suggested she’d already made up her mind about me.
Next to her sat a man in his fifties. Balding head. Fingers like sausages. He shuffled through my file with the enthusiasm of someone reviewing their tax returns.
To his side, a thin man with hollow cheeks and a mole the size of Texas on his cheek. He was the one who’d be doing most of the talking, if past hearings were any indication. The attack dog of the group.
The woman spoke first, her voice flat and rehearsed. “This parole hearing is now in session. The board will be reviewing the case of Inmate Knox Blackwood, currently serving twenty-five years for second-degree murder.” She glanced up. “Mr. Blackwood, do you understand the purpose of this hearing?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you have legal representation present?”
Ryker stepped forward. “Ryker Kincaid, counsel for Mr. Blackwood.”
She made a note. Shuffled a paper. “Very well. Let’s proceed.”
For the next several minutes, they ran through the standard formalities. My sentence. My conviction. The dates of my previous parole denials.
Two of them, to be exact.
I’d walked into this room two times before and walked out with nothing but another year of concrete walls and crushing disappointment.
This time had to be different.
The thin man with the mole cleared his throat, flipping to a new page in my file. His eyes flicked up to meet mine with all the warmth of a morgue freezer.
“It says here you obtained a college degree while incarcerated. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. Business administration.”
“And what are your plans if you’re released?”
If.
Not when.
I let the word land, felt its weight settle into my bones. They were already hedging. Already preparing me for disappointment.
“I’d like to secure full-time employment while continuing my education,” I said, keeping my voice even. “I’m pursuing a degree in finance.”
The woman’s eyebrows shot toward her hairline. “Finance.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You understand you’ll be a convicted felon.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She exchanged a glance with her colleagues. The kind of glance that said, Is this guy serious?
“Most financial institutions do not hire individuals with criminal records,” she continued. “Particularly for positions with access to monetary assets.”
I bit back the response that wanted to crawl up my throat, choosing my words carefully.
“I’m aware of the challenges, ma’am. But I’ve spent fourteen years preparing for them.
I’m not expecting anyone to hand me anything.
I’m willing to start at the bottom and prove myself at a smaller firm that would be willing to take a chance on me.
And there are a lot of positions that don’t have access to people’s money, but rather provide insight and analysis on it. ”
Her expression didn’t change. None of theirs did.
We talked for a few more minutes about my career goals, my job prospects, my “rehabilitation activities” over the past decade. With each answer I gave, their frowns deepened.
The sausage-fingered man leaned forward. “If released, where would you reside?”
“I have several options. Friends who’ve offered temporary housing. Access to transitional resources. As soon as I secure employment, I’d find my own apartment.”
More note-taking. More frowns.
Then the thin man flipped to another page, and his eyes narrowed.
Here we go.
“It says here you’ve accumulated multiple disciplinary reports over the years.”
He stared at me, waiting.
I stared back.