Ruthless Regret (Ruthless Games Duology #2)

Chapter 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

ZAIN

“Are you insane? ”

I hold the phone away from my ear at Peter’s bellow.

“I didn’t spend all that time working to get you out of prison, for you to end up back in there on stalking and blackmail charges!”

“You’re overreacting.”

“I’m overreacting? Really ? You tell me that after the interview Ashley was attacked in your home , and she walked out thinking you used her as bait . And now you want to go and talk her into coming back? Did all those years in prison rot your mind? On what planet is she going to come anywhere near you after all that?”

“She signed a contract?—”

“You know full well that contract is bullshit. All she has to do is take it to any half-assed lawyer to find that out.”

“If you’ll let me finish?”

I’m not one hundred percent certain, but it sounds like my lawyer growls.

“She signed a contract that locked her to me for fourteen months. I doubt she’s going to go to a lawyer, but I can offer to void it. I’m sure we could find grounds for annulling the marriage.”

“I guess we could go through the non-consummation route. That would be easiest.”

I tip my head back against the seat, and close my eyes. “No, we can’t use that one.” There’s a long silence, and I open one eye to check the call hasn’t been disconnected. “Peter?”

“What do you mean, we can’t use non-consummation? I thought the marriage was a business transaction.”

“It was.” I sigh. “Until it wasn’t.”

“What did you do?”

“I would think the answer to that is obvious.” I sound far more flippant than I feel.

“Maybe we can get it annulled due to you having a mental breakdown around the time of the marriage.” There’s a bite to his tone.

“Maybe. Either way, I need to talk to her. If we have to use the contract I made her sign to make that happen, then I will. At the very least, I need to warn her that what happened yesterday might not be a one-off. She could be in danger. I don’t want her getting hurt on my conscience, when I could have stopped it from happening.”

Yes, I know how that sounds. I was more than happy to fuck up her life, to hurt her, to ruin everything she’s built for herself over the years. But that was before I met her. Before I spent time with her. Before I fucked her.

“For the record, I think you’re insane.”

“Noted. But I’m still going to talk to her.”

“I have an alternative suggestion. One that might keep you from ending up back in prison. Why don’t I go and speak to her? There’s less chance of her slamming the door in my face.”

“I need her to come back. We have to figure out a way to access the memories she’s repressed.”

“And there’s a slightly higher chance of getting her agreement if I’m the one suggesting it.”

He’s not wrong. I know that. But still …

“I’m coming with you.”

“Zain.”

“I’m coming with you. I’ll stay in the car while you go in and talk to her. But if you don’t get anywhere, I’ll be there to give it a shot.”

His sigh is heavy. “Fine. When?”

“Tomorrow. My dad is at Jason’s house getting a new door fitted, then he’s going to mine to be there while they replace the glass in the kitchen door.”

“Where will you be?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to drive to New York without you. I’m heading back to my parents’ place. I want to talk to my mom about repressed memories.”

There’s another long silence, and I can practically hear him piecing things together. That’s the lawyer in him, always considering every angle before he speaks … well, when I’m not pushing his buttons, anyway.

“That’s dangerous territory, Zain.” His voice is serious.

“I know. But I want all the information before I present Ashley with it.”

“And what if she says no?”

“Then I’ll have to find another way to convince her.”

“You’re playing with fire.” He sounds resigned to whatever I’m planning. “But you’ve always been a stubborn bastard.”

“It’s what kept me alive for so long.”

He lets out a small laugh. “Fine. Tomorrow then. I’ll pick you up, and we’ll head to New York. Just … don’t do anything stupid in the meantime.”

“I won’t.” I hang up, drop the phone onto the passenger seat and let the silence in the car wrap around me.

What the hell am I doing? I wanted revenge. Now all I want is the truth.

I turn the key in the ignition, the engine rumbling to life, and pull out of the parking lot. The closer I get to my parents’ house, the more my body tenses. With the way everything happened, I’ve never had a chance to talk to my parents about it. I was arrested and kept locked up. I was refused bail, because the prosecution convinced the judge I was a flight risk. I didn’t want them at the trial, and I refused to allow them to visit me in prison.

It wasn’t just that though. I’d been an emotional wreck. First, confused, scared, devastated, and then afterward, when I was alone in my cell, all those emotions turned cold. I became angry, violent, and dangerous.

I didn't want them to see me like that. I didn’t want them to see what I’d become. I know they’re confused by my behavior since my release. I know they’re finding it hard to reconcile their memory of a young son with the man I am.

But I have to set all that to one side. I need answers. I need my mom’s help. I need her to tell me what she remembers about the days following Jason and Louisa’s deaths.

Because I wasn’t here. I was locked away being interrogated.

I don’t know what I’m hoping to hear, but if there’s a chance she knows something, anything , that might help piece together what happened, then I have to ask.

When I arrive at the house, I park the car, get out, and make my way up the steps. The door opens before I can knock, and my mom’s standing there.

“What are you doing here, honey? I thought you were with your dad.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“About what?” She steps aside to let me in.

“About Jason. About that night.”

She frowns, then waves me through to the living room. “Why don’t you go and sit down? I’ll make us coffee, and then we can talk.”

I walk into the living room and take a seat in one of the armchairs. My fingers drum restlessly on my thigh.

She comes back into the living room a few minutes later, carrying two mugs. Handing one to me, she sits on the couch.

“What do you want to know?” Her voice is soft, and there’s an awareness there that she knows whatever I’m about to ask is going to be difficult.

I take a deep breath. This conversation isn’t going to be easy. “Do you remember the days right after Jason and Louisa’s deaths?”

“Of course I do.”

I glance down at the coffee mug gripped in my hands, then back up at her. “What was it like? Here, I mean. With the police, the investigation. Everything.”

“It was chaotic. The police were everywhere. Every time one of us left the house, reporters were shouting questions at us. It felt like we were living in a nightmare.”

“Do you remember talking to anyone? The detectives? Holson and Ramsey?”

Her features darken slightly at their names. “Ramsey was in charge. Holson came by a few times, but Ramsey did most of the questioning. He was determined. He wanted answers, and he wasn’t too concerned about how he got them.”

“Did you ever feel like he was pressuring you to make statements that weren’t true?”

“No. But he seemed impatient. Like he wanted the case wrapped up quickly. He kept asking if you ever argued with Jason, if there was any tension between the two of you. I told him the truth. That you loved him like he was your brother.”

“What about Holson?”

“I got the sense that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with Ramsey’s methods. There was something off about the way they were pushing the investigation. But what could I do? They were the police, and being your mother, they had no interest in listening to me say you were innocent.”

“Do you remember anything else? Anything strange? Did anyone visit, or did anything go missing?”

She stares down at her hands, a slight furrow between her eyes as she thinks. “A few people came by,” she says slowly. “Neighbors, friends, reporters, obviously. But … you know, there was this one man. He wasn’t a detective, but he asked a lot of questions. I thought he might be a journalist. He wasn’t like the others, and seemed interested in hearing why I thought you were innocent, so I spoke to him. But I never saw anything in the news.”

“What kind of questions?”

“He asked about you and Jason, your relationship with Louisa. Whether there was a possibility she was having an affair with someone else.”

I sit up straighter. “Do you remember his name?”

“No. I’m sorry. It was such an awful time. He only came by once.”

A man, not a detective, asking questions. It could be nothing. It could be the missing link to a larger picture.