The prison library smelled like disinfectant and broken promises.
Ken Blake had spent the last three years here—cleaning, cataloging books, and maintaining the computer terminal that had limited access to the internet. It was the best job in Rockview Correctional. It kept him away from the violence of the common areas. It kept him thinking instead of fighting.
The terminal was a relic from 2015. Slow. Monitored. But it had enough freedom for him to see the world, if he was careful about his searches.
On a Tuesday in October, during the afternoon shift when the library was nearly empty, Blake had opened his email account—one he'd set up before prison, carefully maintained through a friend on the outside. The email contained a message from his lawyer: "Your appeal has been partially granted. There will be a hearing in November. Procedural errors identified. Recommendation for time reduction. Realistic estimate: 30 months early release."
Blake had read the email five times.
He'd been in Rockview for three years of his second sentence. Ten years total for the robberies. He'd served more than six. With good behavior and the appeal, he could be out in two and a half years. He'd be fifty-five years old. He'd have maybe another thirty, forty years to live. Maybe less.
It wasn't much. But it was something.
That night in his cell, Blake had done what he always did—thought about James Patterson.
The appeal hearing happened in late November. Blake wore the institutional clothes they provided and sat at a table while his public defender made arguments about procedural violations. The judge—a woman named Reeves who looked tired—listened and nodded.
"The initial sentencing did have procedural irregularities," Judge Reeves had said. "However, Mr. Blake, you understand that this reduction, if granted, is not forgiveness. You're being released early because the system made mistakes, not because you've earned redemption."
"I understand, Your Honor," Blake had said.
"Additionally," Reeves continued, "your behavior in prison has been exemplary. You've participated in rehabilitation programs. You've attended anger management counseling. The prison psychologist recommends cautious optimism about your reintegration."
The psychologist was a woman named Dr. Chen who Blake had met with for six months. He'd told her what she wanted to hear. He'd talked about his anger. He'd breathed deeply. He'd cried at appropriate moments. He'd been, by every institutional measure, rehabilitated.
What he hadn't told her was that the anger was still there—just directed now. No longer diffuse and self-destructive. Focused. Clear. Aimed at one man.
The hearing had lasted forty minutes. The judge had granted the reduction. Blake would be released in exactly 30 months.
Two and a half years. 910 days. 21,840 hours.
Blake had counted every single one.
During those 910 days, Blake had prepared.
He'd read everything about the criminal justice system. He'd studied court proceedings. He'd learned about parole violations and how to avoid them. He'd learned what surveillance looked like and how to move through the world without being tracked.
He'd also learned to be patient.
In the prison library, between his shifts, Blake had researched. He'd learned about James Patterson's movements. He'd found old articles about their falling out at UPenn. He'd read about the defamation lawsuit. He'd followed the academic scandal as it developed and faded.
Then, in 2023, he'd found something interesting: a lawsuit filed by James Patterson's ex-wife, Emily Washburn Patterson. The suit alleged breach of contract and financial negligence during their marriage. The case had been settled, but the court records were public.
Blake had read the settlement details. Emily claimed James had hidden assets during the marriage. She'd gotten the house. He'd gotten the debt.
Blake had wondered what it felt like to lose everything. He'd already knew, of course. But to know that James had lost things too—that was interesting.
He'd searched for Emily. Found that she'd moved to Idaho. Was working for a potato farm cooperative. Had rebuilt something of a life.
Then Blake had searched for James again. And discovered he'd dropped off the map. No job listings. No social media presence. A void.
This made Blake nervous. Where was James? What was he doing?
Six months before his release date, Blake had received a visitor.
He didn't expect visitors anymore. His ex-wife hadn't come in five years. His sister had stopped coming after the second sentence. He had no one.
The man who visited was someone Blake recognized but didn't know. They'd been in the first prison together. Tommy Reeves—no relation to the judge. A guy who'd been arrested for armed robbery in 2018, served four years, got out in 2022.
"Blake," Tommy had said across the visitation table. "Word on the outside is you're getting out soon."
"Maybe," Blake had said carefully. Visits were monitored.
"I might be able to help with that," Tommy had said. He'd slid something across the table. A piece of paper with an address and a name: "When you get out, go here. Ask for Vincent. Tell him Tommy sent you. He'll take care of you."
Blake had taken the paper. The guards were watching but not paying close attention. Shift change was happening. The visitation room was momentarily chaos.
"What's Vincent?" Blake had asked.
"Someone who helps people who need helping," Tommy had said. "People with specific goals. He's expensive but he's good."
Blake had folded the paper and put it in his pocket.
The night before his release, Blake couldn't sleep.
He'd been in prison for ten years total. Most of his forties. He'd entered as a man with a career and a life. He was exiting as something else. Something hollowed out and refocused.
His cellmate—a kid named Martinez doing eighteen months for possession—was snoring in the bunk below. Blake lay in the darkness of his cell and thought about the next day.
He'd walk out through the gates. He'd have $47 in discharge money. He'd have the address Tommy had given him. He'd have a parole officer named Williams who he'd have to check in with weekly. He'd have restrictions—no travel outside Pennsylvania without permission, no association with known felons, no illegal activity.
He'd also have 910 days of preparation behind him. He'd have a clear goal. He'd have hate that had been crystallized into something pure.
James Patterson was somewhere in America. Blake didn't know exactly where. But Blake had time now. Blake had a future.
And Blake intended to use it.
The gates of Rockview opened at 6:47 AM on a Tuesday morning.
Blake stepped through wearing clothes that didn't fit him. The morning was cold. The sun was coming up somewhere beyond the prison walls, painting the sky orange and red.
An old woman sat on a bench at the bus stop outside. She didn't look at him. Nobody did. Blake was invisible.
He counted his money: $47. He'd saved more through his prison job—another $700 that he'd had transferred to a money order and cashed through a prison money handler. It was all he had in the world.
Blake got on the bus. He had the address in his pocket. Vincent's place was in Philadelphia, two hours away.
As the bus pulled away from the prison, Blake looked back once. The massive concrete structure that had held him receded into the distance. He'd spent ten years of his life here. Ten years that he'd never get back.
But he wasn't thinking about those ten years. He was thinking about the thirty or forty years ahead. He was thinking about how he'd use them.
He was thinking about James Patterson.
The bus driver asked him if he was getting on for the full ride or getting off early. Blake said Philadelphia. The driver nodded and didn't ask questions.
As the industrial landscape of rural Pennsylvania rolled past the window, Blake closed his eyes and thought about what came next. He thought about the girl at the coffee shop in Philadelphia where Tommy had told him Vincent liked to meet people. He thought about how he'd approach Vincent. How he'd explain what he wanted.
He thought about the fact that he'd been a good man once. He'd been a researcher. He'd been someone who followed rules and believed in systems.
That man was dead now.
What remained was something else. Something focused. Something that had been burned away of everything except desire.
Blake opened his eyes and watched America move past him. He was free. He was alive. He was ready.
Vincent would help him. Tommy had promised. And then, eventually, James Patterson would understand that there were prices for what he'd done. Prices that couldn't be paid in money or time.
Only in blood.