“How long is his sentence?”
“Twenty-five years. Has served fourteen so far. Been denied parole before though.”
I filed that away for later. The more pressing headline was that I’d just treated the most dangerous inmate at Coldwater Penitentiary . On my first day. Without backup.
Part of me wanted to be angry. A heads-up would’ve been nice. But another part—a stubborn, defiant part—felt something close to satisfaction. I’d walked into the lion’s den and walked out with all my limbs attached. If I could survive that, maybe I could survive anything.
“Anyway,” Dr. Mercer continued, leading me toward the main door, “any signs of head trauma with Blackwood?”
It didn’t surprise me he was the first (or only) patient she was asking me about. The rest of them were mundane today. Scheduled check-ins. Uneventful. Which was welcome after that explosive morning.
“No concussion symptoms. Pupils responsive, no confusion. He said he felt fine.”
She stopped walking.
Just … stopped. Like I’d told her the vending machine started dispensing gold bars.
“Hetalkedto you?”
“Um … yeah?” Why was she looking at me like I’d grown a second head?
“Huh.”
“Is that bad?”
“No. It’s … unusual.” She started walking again, slower now, like she was chewing on something. “He’s the silent type. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him speak to a nurse or doctor. Not once.”
“Like, ever?”
“Not in the seven years I’ve been here.”
Seven years. He hadn’t spoken a single word to medical staff in seven years.
“Then how do they tend to his injuries?”
“The best they can with a patient who won’t answer questions. Lot of guesswork. Lot of poking around until you find the problem.”
But Knox hadn’t just answered a question. He’d initiated a conversation. Asked me things. Made borderline jokes.
Why?
“Any idea why he’d talk tome?”
She shrugged, pushing open the main door and holding it for me. “Who knows? Maybe he liked your bedside manner. Maybe he was bored. Maybe—” She stopped, studied me for a moment. “You look rattled.”
My fingernail was going to wear a hole through my thumb.
“I just don’t understand why he’d break years of silence for me.”
“Does it matter?”
Yes. No. I don’t know.
Because here was the thing: If Knox Blackwood was the monster his reputation suggested, then why had he felt so … careful with me? Why lower his voice? Why track my movements like he was making sure he never startled me? Why look at my scar with something that looked horrifyingly close to anger on my behalf?
Monsters didn’t do that. Did they?
“He’s a convicted killer. That’s the only thing I need to know about him.”
