The prison emerged through the snow like a ghost, all concrete and razor wire, edges softened by the storm. I pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine, catching my reflection in the rearview mirror. Red-rimmed eyes. The unmistakable look of someone trying very hard to hold it together.
I’d see Knox again today.
And something told me he’d take one look at my face and know exactly what I was trying so hard to bury.
27
HARPER
Knox Blackwood was reorganizing the exam room’s supply cabinets. Again.
Shocking. Truly.
The man had reorganized it three times this week. At this point, the bandages were alphabetized by brand and the gauze was sorted by thread count. If such a thing even existed.
“Are you okay?” His husky voice had an edge of worry.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my emotions in check. “I’m fine.”
The lie tasted stale.
Knox cocked his head to the side, those silver eyes scanning my face like he was reading a language only he understood.
“Is it your ex?” I didn’t miss the edge to his tone.
“No.”
“Is an inmate giving you a hard time?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
These days, it was something I never talked about with anyone.
I suppose the reasons for that were several. First, it was the most painful part of my past, capable of reaching into my psycheand cracking my self-worth in half. Second, as terrible as it made me to admit this, it was embarrassing, having two parents who were such a hot mess. And beneath all of that, I felt like a bad person for hating them for it.
So, I avoided the topic. At all costs. I tried to rationalize away my pain. Like I was internally doing right now.
That phone call with my mom had actually been a good one, all things considered. Plenty of our conversations were absolute disasters, complete with crying and yelling and accusations that left me shaking for hours. It just depended on how drunk she was.
Today had been manageable. So, why was I still hurting so bad?
Which brought me to the final reason I no longer talked about this with anyone. It was embarrassing to admit that my heart would still, unfathomably, get its hopes up that things would change.
What kind of pathetic person clings to such a far-fetched fantasy?
The kind who still checks her phone, hoping for ajust thinking about youtext from her mother. The kind who cries in her car after every visit.
The kind who, apparently, couldn’t stop hoping even when hope was the thing that kept cutting her.
“If another inmate?—”
“It’s not an inmate!” My voice echoed off the walls. I winced. “Sorry. Just … family dynamics can be complicated.”
He didn’t seem angry at my outburst. Instead, his gaze traveled over me slowly. Head to toe, cataloging. Looking for injuries, I realized. Trying to decide if he believed that family dysfunction was the source of my bad mood rather than, say, another inmate getting handsy.
Because something told me if it had been an inmate, Knox wouldn’t take it lying down.
