Ruthless Regret (Ruthless Games Duology #2)

Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

ZAIN

I’m up at five, after a mostly sleepless night. Clearing away any trace of me sleeping in the bathroom in case my mom comes in, I take a quick shower, dress, and then go downstairs. I doubt my parents will be awake yet, but I’m too restless to sit around. Part of my daily prison routine was to work out, and I haven’t had much chance to do that since my release, so I go out for a run.

The streets are quiet. It’s still too early for most people to be getting up and traveling to work, and I make the most of it. My feet pounding on the sidewalk gives me something to focus on, instead of the thoughts that have been on a loop all night long.

It feels good to be outside, the morning sun warm on my face. I take a deep breath, the fresh air filling my lungs, and for a moment I’m taken back to the prison yard. The air smelled different there, stale and heavy, even when the sun was out. But this … This is the kind of freedom I spent fourteen years dreaming about. And yet even out here, with the open sky above me, and the town stretching out in every direction, I don’t feel free. Not really.

What people don’t realize is that freedom isn’t just walking out of the prison, without chains around your ankles and handcuffs around your wrists. It’s more than the ability to go where you want, do want you want.

It’s about knowing who you are, and what you’re supposed to be doing.

It’s about having a plan … a purpose … meaning … a life .

I thought I had a plan. I thought I had a purpose.

But my plan fell apart. Revenge didn’t fix anything. It just made things worse.

It’s becoming clear fast that I don’t have anything .

The sidewalk disappears under me as I push myself harder, faster, trying to outrun the frustration that’s been building inside me since the moment I walked out of the courthouse.

Is this freedom?

Waking up for the rest of my life with nothing but a broken plan, and no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do next?

The houses pass by in a blur.

I’m just as trapped now as I was in prison. Only this time, the walls aren’t physical. They’re all inside my head.

Slowing my pace, breathing hard, I stop at the edge of a small park. The grass glistens with early morning dew, and the weak light of the rising sun makes everything look peaceful. Almost perfect, even. A laugh escapes me. If only my life reflected that. That’ s anything but perfect and peaceful.

Leaning against a tree, I focus on my breathing, keeping it slow and deep, waiting for my heart rate to lower, and look around. The empty streets look so normal, untouched by the chaos raging in my head.

I wish I could go back in time. Before I lost my friends. Before the murders. Before everything fell apart. But that’s not an option. The only way is forward, and no matter how much I want to walk away from the mess my life has become, I can’t. I’m in too deep to turn back now.

I push off the tree, and move back into a slow jog. I know where I’m heading, even if I don’t want to admit it.

The streets seem to narrow, the closer I get to my destination. By the time I turn the corner, my pulse is racing—not from the run, but from the flood of memories that slam into me.

The windows are dark, reflecting the early morning light, and for a moment, it’s as though I’ve got my wish and been transported back in time. But then the gap where the front door should be comes into view.

I stop at the edge of the driveway, my chest tightening as I stare at it, and will myself to walk forward. Without my plan, I have nothing to stand as a barrier between me and the memories threatening to overwhelm me again. Taking a deep breath, I move forward. The firefighters put some kind of plastic covering over the door, hiding the inside of the house. I peel away the tape holding it in place, and step inside.

The hall beyond is dim, the early morning light barely filtering through the window. My eyes scan the walls, the floor, the small space beneath my feet where the floor is burned. The flames didn’t get far—the firefighters made sure of that—but there’s still a charred path leading from the front door deeper into the hall.

Once I’m in the middle of the entrance hall, I look around. The fire might not have destroyed much, but the damage runs deeper than what’s visible. It’s in the air. In the silence that hangs between the walls.

My breathing echoes in the empty house, and I close my eyes, and push back the memories trying to take over.

Jason. Louisa. The night everything went to hell.

The night I lost them.

The night I lost my life.

I run a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly as I turn back to the door. I need to get out of here. Just as I take a step forward, I hear a sound. The slam of a car door. A footstep.

My body locks up as I listen.

“Zain?”

My dad walks in. There’s an edge of concern to his voice. The same concern that’s been there since I got out. His gaze sweeps over the hallway before landing on me.

“I thought I might find you here. Checking out the damage?”

“Yeah. Wanted to see how bad it was.”

He steps closer. “It could have been worse. Looks like the firefighters got here just in time.”

“I know.”

We stand there, the house quiet except for the faint creaking of the floorboards under our feet.

“I don’t know what to do,” I admit in a low voice.

He leans against the wall, and folds his arms. “You’ve been through hell, Zain. You can’t expect to come out the other side and just … move on. It doesn’t work like that.”

I curl my fingers, nails biting into my palms. “I thought revenge would help. I thought it would give me something to focus on.”

My dad sighs. “Revenge doesn’t fix anything, son. It just gives you a moment’s satisfaction. The problems are still there when you’re done, though.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

His gaze is steady, holding mine. “That’s something only you can figure out.”

His words hang between us.

That’s something only you can figure out.

It’s such a simple sentence, but no one ever tells you how. They just tell you to keep pushing, keep searching, keep looking for a way.

But nothing is that simple. It never has been.

“I arranged for someone to come out and fix the door,” he says after a long pause.

“Thanks.” I don’t know what else to say.

I stare down the hallway to where I know the kitchen lies, my thoughts going to the files Knight sent. The case files. The interviews.

There has to be something in there.

“I have the case files.”

My dad raises an eyebrow. “Case files?”

“For Jason and Louisa. A friend sent them to me. I need to go through them. He said there are differences between the original ones, and the ones they used in the trial. We think there might be something in them … something that might lead us to the real killer.”

He watches me carefully, but doesn’t say anything.

“I need to know what really happened that night.”

“You think someone changed the information in the files?”

“I know they did.”

“Then go through them.” Like it’s that easy. “Take your time. Look at every detail. You’ve lived with this for years. Maybe you’ll see something that others didn’t.”

I rub the back of my neck, and nod.

“You need to understand that whatever you find in those files … it’s not going to undo the past. But it might help you to understand it. Maybe that’s the best you can hope for.”