Gwen smiled. A real smile this time. The kind that reached her eyes.
She turned to go, then paused. Looked back over her shoulder.
“Dad?”
My heart seized. She hadn’t called me that in years.
“I’m glad you’re coming home.”
Then she walked out of the room, and I stood there in my shackles and my prison orange, tears streaming down my face.
48
KNOX
Fourteen years, two months, and eleven days.
That’s how long I’d been counting concrete blocks, fluorescent lights, and the ceiling tiles in my cell. Five thousand one hundred fifteen days of the same gray walls, the same fluorescent hum, the same slow march of minutes that felt like years.
Today, that march ended.
Ronan was waiting for me outside our cell, arms crossed, jaw tight. My cellmate. My brother in all the ways that mattered. We’d shared that six-by-eight concrete box for years, and in a few minutes, I’d walk through a door he couldn’t follow me through.
“So, this is it,” he said, trying to look unbothered. He wasn’t fooling anyone.
“This is it.”
“You’d better not forget about us regular folks once you’re out there, living your best life.”
I huffed out something close to a laugh. “Yeah, because my parole officer is really going to love me showing up for weekend visits.”
“Tell him it’s educational. Scared-straight program. You’re doing a public service.”
“Pretty sure that only works if I was actually scared straight.”
Ronan grinned, but it wobbled at the edges. He stuck out his hand, and I took it, pulling him in for the kind of hug men don’t talk about. The kind that says,I love you, and,Thank you, and,Please survive this, all at once.
“One and a half years,” I said against his shoulder, my voice rougher than I intended. “Less with good behavior. You hear me?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He coughed, cleared his throat, stepped back. “Now get the hell out of here before I do something embarrassing like cry.”
“Wouldn’t dream of ruining your reputation.”
“My reputation is impeccable.”
“Your reputation is that you snore like a chain saw with a sinus infection.”
He shoved me toward the corridor. “Go. Be free. Send pictures of actual food. Burgers. Steak. Something that doesn’t look like it was already digested once.”
I walked away before the guilt of leaving him behind could wrap its fingers around my throat and squeeze.
The guard at the end of the block jerked his chin toward processing. “Blackwood. Let’s go.”
One last walk down that fluorescent corridor. One last set of doors buzzing open and clanging shut behind me.
Then I was standing in the discharge processing room.
“Arms out.” The guard’s voice was bored. Routine. Just another Tuesday for him.
