“I know. But I just watched you put Doyle on the ground in under ten seconds, and you didn’t even look like you were trying.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So, now I’m sitting here, wondering what Smith actually looked like when you were done with him.”
I sighed, the sound heavy enough to carry years of exhaustion. If this were anyone else, I wouldn’t bother answering. But Ronan had the unfortunate circumstance of being assigned as my cellmate, and somehow, against all odds, he’d made my time here a little more bearable. He rarely pried into my personal life. He respected my privacy.
Looking back, that was pretty noble of him. If I’d been assigned to share a cell with the inmate who had the worst reputation in the penitentiary, I probably would’ve demanded an explanation on day one.
He’d earned a real answer.
“Shortly after I arrived,” I began, stretching my fingers out, then curling them back into loose fists, “there were a handful of inmates trying to assert their dominance over me. Egging me on. Trying to bait me into fights. Typical prison politics.”
Ronan nodded, already invested. “And you kept your head down.”
“Until I didn’t.”
The memory surfaced like something crawling up from dark water. I didn’t fight it.
“Smith was a child predator.” A lot of people on the outside didn’t understand, but in here, there was a code. “You never fuckwith children. Ever.” I met Ronan’s eyes. “So, when a predator shows up, he’s in for a long stay.”
“The longest,” Ronan agreed, his voice losing some of its usual humor.
“The only reason Smith survived as long as he did was because he learned to play weak. Laugh things off. Stay invisible.” I leaned back on the metal stool, the cold seeping through my prison-issued shirt. “But men like him, it doesn’t take long for them to grow complacent. One day, he started bragging about what he’d done to those kids. Bragging. How easy it was. How the parents never noticed. How many times he got away with it before he got caught.” The words tasted like acid in my mouth. “He thought no one would act on it. He was wrong.”
I remembered the cafeteria. The noise. The smell of overcooked food and industrial cleaner. The way Smith’s voice had carried across the room, casual, as if he were discussing the weather.
“I didn’t interrupt him. Didn’t threaten him.” I rubbed a hand over the buzzed sides of my hair, the familiar texture calming something feral inside me. “I just stood up.”
Ronan leaned forward. “And?”
“Closed the distance in three seconds. First strike disabled him completely.” I paused. “The rest was a blur.”
“The thing everyone talks about,” Ronan said quietly, “is that you didn’t look angry. That’s what scared them the most.”
I said nothing. Because he was right. I hadn’t been angry. I’d been something far worse. Calm.
“Smith suffered severe internal injuries. Nearly bled out before the guards pulled me off.” I looked down at my hands. The same hands that had written letters to my daughter for over a decade. “If they hadn’t intervened, he would’ve died.”
“And that’s what everybody knows,” Ronan said slowly, like he was only now putting it together. “That you would’ve finished it.”
I nodded once.
“So, how the hell are you still up for parole?”
“Smith survived. Barely, but legally, that matters. Plus, the witnesses wouldn’t testify against me. No one was willing to defend a child predator, so suddenly, there wasn’t a single inmate who could recall exactly what went down. Some claimed he provoked me. And once the guards intervened, I stopped. I didn’t fight them. So, I was punished internally. Solitary. But without witnesses, without Smith having any memory of what happened, it was chalked up to a prison fight. No additional time on my sentence.”
Ronan let out a low whistle. “So, it was a single act. One fight. And that’s all it took to become a legend.”
I picked up my pen again, turning it between my fingers. “Everyone saw what I was capable of. That I wouldn’t hesitate. That I had a code, and if someone crossed it, consequences didn’t matter to me.”
“And today, Doyle crossed it.”
I thought about Harper. About the tiny scar she thought no one noticed. About the way she flinched. And I shuddered, imagining what Doyle would’ve done to her if he’d gotten the chance.
“Yeah,” I said. “He crossed it.”
Ronan was quiet for a long moment. Then, softer than I expected: “You know, for a guy who’s in here for murder, you’re kind of a softy.”
I glared at him.
He held up his palms. “Just saying. You’re over there, writing love letters to your kid like some kind of Hallmark dad.”
