The morning shift at the penitentiary started the way most did: with bitter coffee and the faint hum of fluorescent lights that made everything look vaguely jaundiced.
Dr. Mercer stood, organizing gauze packs while I updated patient files at the desk. The infirmary smelled like antiseptic and stale air, a combination I’d grown almost fond of. Almost.
“So”—Dr. Mercer didn’t turn around, her hands still sorting supplies—“how’s Blackwood working out as the orderly?”
“I think he’s great,” I said, clicking through a file on the screen. “But he’s the first orderly I’ve worked with. So, what do I know?” I glanced over my shoulder. “What do you think?”
“He’s a huge step up from Doyle.” She paused. Her eyes flickered to me, then away. She cleared her throat. “I mean, thank God Doyle isn’t here after …”
The sentence dangled there like a loose thread she didn’t want me pulling.
I remembered her telling me how Doyle used to stare at nurses. How he’d find excuses to linger, to stand too close, to let his gaze settle on places it had no business settling. Knox didn’t do any of that. But I didn’t fully trust my own radar yet. It had been catastrophically wrong before.
So, I found myself genuinely curious about Mercer’s read on him.
“What do you think about Knox working here?” I asked. “Honestly.”
She lined up a row of gauze packs with surgical precision, like she was buying time. “I had my reservations at first,” she admitted. “After what he did to Doyle, it was clear Knox could do serious damage if he wanted to.” She glanced sideways at me. “But when I heard why he did it … I have to admit, it put me at ease.”
Okaaay. We’ll file that under Things That Need Immediate Follow-Up.
“You know why he beat up Doyle?” I leaned forward.
“He’s never mentioned it to you?”
“Why would he?”
She shrugged. “You two seem friendly with each other. I just figured maybe …” Her voice trailed off.
I set my pen down. “Knox spent years not talking to anyone in the infirmary. He’s not suddenly confessing his entire life story over a mop bucket.”
In fact, I’d flat-out asked him. He’d refused to answer. Shut it down like a steel door closing. And now Mercer looked sheepish, which was making my stomach do something I didn’t appreciate.
I straightened in my chair. Squared my shoulders.
Before, people used to talk around me. Feed me half-truths wrapped in good intentions. And every time, I’d swallow it down like medicine and tell myself ignorance was easier.
Not anymore.
“If I’m working alongside this man every day,” I said, and I was proud of how steady my voice came out, “I deserve to know who I’m working with. If he’s some kind of violent psychopath, Ineed that information. Not tomorrow. Not when the timing feels right. Now.”
Dr. Mercer studied me for a beat. “I suppose that’s fair.” A breath. “And I suppose it’s only fair you know the real reason Knox beat Doyle half to death on your first day.”
The room went very still.
“I thought that was just …” I shook my head. “A prison fight. Testosterone. Territory.”
She had the decency to look guilty. “I didn’t want to scare you when you’d barely started. But you’re right; you’re working with him every day, and you deserve the full picture.”
My fingernail found the inside of my thumb. An old habit. A bad one. “What full picture?”
She folded her hands in her lap. Took a breath. “Do you remember how badly Doyle was beaten? How I spent hours treating him that day?”
“I remember.”
She paused. “He needed a fair amount of pain management. Dilaudid. And when it kicked in, he got chatty.” Another pause. “Too chatty.”
“And?”
