Ryker’s jaw went tight. “What the hell is that?”
“Nothing.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, then dropped his hand with a sharp exhale. “Please tell me you didn’t get into a fight. Please. Because if word gets out that you’re?—”
“It was a scuffle.” I pulled my hands back under the table, out of sight. “No big deal.”
“A scuffle.” He repeated the word like it tasted rotten. “With who?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It matters if it ends up in your file.”
Ryker stared at me, clearly waiting for more. I didn’t give him anything.
I hated lying to my best friend. But if I told him the full truth right now, he’d probably have an aneurysm.
“You’re un-fucking-believable—you know that?” Ryker snapped. “I’m tired of prepping you for parole hearings you’re determined to fail.”
Ryker was more than my lawyer. He was one of the four men who’d stood by me since that night the cops dragged me out of our fraternity house in handcuffs: Blake, Jace, Axel, and Ryker. My brothers in everything but blood. They called themselves the Sinners and Saints Club, and for fourteen years, they’d never wavered.
“I’m following your advice.”
“Not all of it.”
“I got the degree, didn’t I? Business major. Graduated with honors while sharing a cell with a guy who talked to his toenail clippings.” Thank God he wasn’t my cellmate anymore. Ronan was a huge step up. “That should count for something.”
“It does count. But it’s not enough.” Ryker’s jaw tightened. “You know what parole boards want to hear? They want you to say you regret it. That you’ve thought long and hard about your actions and realized there was a better way. That you feelremorse and would give anything for your victim to be alive today.”
The wordvictimscraped against my skull like a dull blade.
“He wasn’t a victim.”
“To them, he was. And until you can choke out something that sounds like regret, they’ll keep stampingDeniedon your file.” Ryker leaned closer. “Just say the words, Knox. You don’t have to mean them.”
“That’s exactly why I won’t say them. I won’t buy my freedom with lies. I’ll earn it. Because I served my time. Because I bettered myself in here. Not because some suit on a parole board made me grovel over a man who didn’t deserve to breathe.”
“And if they never see it that way?”
“Then I’ll wait out the eleven years.” I met his stare. Held it. “What I won’t do is dishonor what happened to her by pretending I wish I’d let him live.”
Ryker pinched the bridge of his nose again, exhaustion bleeding through his courtroom composure. “You’re the most stubborn son of a bitch I’ve ever represented. And I once defended a guy who insisted on testifying in rhymes.”
“Did he win?”
“He’s in a facility upstate. But at least he showed remorse.”
“Hilarious.”
“I’m not asking you to apologize for protecting your daughter.” Ryker’s voice dropped, and around us, other inmates glanced over. Even through the cacophony of visiting hour—crying kids, desperate promises, the hollow laughter of people pretending four walls don't separate them—our argument drew attention. “I’m asking you to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, there could have been another way.”
“There wasn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I was there. You weren’t.” My fingers stretched again. Once. Twice. “Pretty words from a man who’s never had to choose between his daughter’s innocence and another man’s life.”
“You’re right. I haven’t. But I’ve spent fourteen years watching you rot in here while she grows up without you. Tell me, when’s the last time you saw her?”
