Axel: Told you. Porn. *Smirking emoji*
Ryker: [Removed Axel from the chat.]
Ryker: Finally. Some fucking peace.
Axel: [Added himself to the chat.]
Axel: You can’t get rid of me that easily, bitches.
Ryker: HOW DO YOU KEEP DOING THAT?!
Axel: Magic.
17
KNOX
The second Ryker walked through the visitation room doors, I knew I was in for it.
Three and a half weeks. That’s how long it had been since his last visit. He’d been neck deep in some high-profile trial that made the news, which meant I’d had radio silence from the one person who usually wouldn’t shut up about my parole strategy.
But apparently, the trial ended. Because here he was. And from the look on his face, he hadn’t come to celebrate his courtroom victory.
He dropped into the chair across from me like he was about to conduct a cross-examination.
“So”—his voice was low, the voice he probably used in depositions when he already knew the answer—“drove over to Axel’s place after that little group conversation”—he looked at the guard—“Ihad. You know the one.” He leaned forward, eyes sharp. “Thought I’d have a chat with him about his recent charitable donations.”
Charitable donations. Code for contraband. The phone.
“And?”
“And after about ten minutes, he cracked.” Ryker’s jaw tightened. “Told me you’ve been getting Shawshanked.”
I almost laughed. “Shawshanked.”
“His word. Not mine. Apparently, when he visited you a few weeks back, your lip looked like a balloon animal.” Ryker’s voice dropped even lower. “First, busted knuckles. Then a fat lip. Care to explain?”
I leaned back, stretching my legs under the table. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
“Another fight, Knox?” His voice pitched higher, and then he caught himself, glancing around before lowering it again. “We’ve talked about this. You heard the part where you could rack up more charges, correct? That eleven years could become a life sentence if the other guy’s heart stops beating?”
Ryker dragged a hand down his face. In his three-thousand-dollar suit, with his perfectly styled hair and manicured nails, he looked about as out of place in this visitation room as a Rolex at a pawn shop. Behind us, another inmate muttered to his public defender. Somewhere down the row, a woman cried.
Just another day.
“And speaking of things that could destroy your parole,” Ryker continued, voice barely above a whisper now, “you need to get rid of that gift Axel gave you. Flush it. Bury it. I don’t care. But if anyone finds it, you’re done.”
“No.”
“Knox.”
“I said, no.”
Ryker’s eye twitched. “Do you have any desire to get out of this place? Because between the fights and”—he glanced around again—“thecharitable contributions, it’s like you’re actively trying to add years to your sentence.”
I said nothing.
Ryker studied me. Recalibrated. Tried a different angle.
