Ruthless Regret (Ruthless Games Duology #2)

Chapter 27

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

ZAIN

Restlessness and insomnia drives me out of bed at some ungodly hour. The need to move, to do something, anything . It’s not quite a week since I walked out of prison, but my body still remembers the daily routine.

Get up early, work out in the prison yard, then shower.

When I first bought the house so I could move out and give Jason and Louisa their space, my intention was to turn one of the rooms into a home gym. Obviously, that went to shit, so I add it to my mental list of things to do.

The list that’s become less about revenge, and more about survival.

For now, I make do with what I’ve got. Push-ups, sit-ups, squats—the basic exercises that kept me sane when I was in solitary confinement. Something that happened more than once during my first year in maximum security. It’s enough to keep my mind focused, and burns off some of the tension that’s been growing since Ashley walked out.

I move through the routine automatically. Push-ups first, counting out the repetitions in my head. Then squats, feeling the familiar pull in my legs. Those are followed by sit-ups until my core burns.

It’s not about fitness, that’s just a happy side effect. It’s about control. It’s about keeping that restlessness, the rage, and all the other shit that’s been building up, locked down tight.

Sweat runs down my back, but my pulse is steady, and the rhythm of the exercises helps drown out the noise inside my head.

By the time I’ve gone through several sets, my body is aching, but the tension has eased. It’s enough to make me feel like I’m in control again. For now, anyway. Afterward, I head for a shower, and let the hot water scald my skin, the heat relaxing the last bit of tightness in my muscles.

The problem is that now I’ve stopped working out, and I’m standing under the water with nothing else to occupy my mind, the thoughts come back, circling around in my head like vultures over a fresh kill.

Ramsey. Holson. The man my mom mentioned. The unidentified print.

I need to figure out what the fuck happened back then.

Drying off, I check the time. Peter should be here soon so we can go to New York. I get dressed, and move into the kitchen. It’s weird how quiet the house is. It doesn’t sit right with me. I’m too used to the noise of prison life. At least there, I knew what to expect.

I make a coffee, and lean against the counter, and run through my new plan.

Go to New York.

Convince Ashley to come back to Whitstone.

Figure out who attacked her.

Hope it leads to a way to get answers for what happened.

I’m confident that Ashley holds an important piece of the puzzle, whether she believes it or not. I need her to come back.

I take a sip of coffee, looking around the kitchen. The clean counters, the empty spaces. A house like this should feel like a home, but it doesn’t. It’s more like a stage set, a place where nothing quite feels lived in. Not for me, at least.

Prison life was predictable. Brutal at times, but predictable. The routine, the sense of always knowing where I was, and what I was supposed to be doing. Out here, it’s different. There’s too much space. Too much freedom. And yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds.

My phone buzzes just as I take another sip of coffee.

“Hey.”

“I’m outside.” Peter’s voice is crisp.

“On my way.”

Grabbing a jacket, I head out of the door. Peter’s car is parked at the bottom of the steps. He watches me as I slide into the passenger seat, his eyes sharp.

“You ready for this?”

“Yeah. Let’s get it done.”

We pull away from the house, and for a few minutes, the car ride is silent. Peter glances at me.

“You sure this is what you want to do?”

“I don’t see any other option.”

“She’s not going to be happy with you showing up, especially this early in the morning.”

“She doesn't have to be happy about it. I need the truth, and I need her to get to it. That’s it. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can get answers.” I ignore the little voice that points out that I’m full of shit. That finding out what she knows is only part of the reason I want to see her again.

“Pushing her isn’t going to get you anywhere.”

“I’m not pushing. You’re the one who’s going to talk to her, remember.”

“I know, but still …”

“The police either fucked up, or hid evidence on purpose. We already know that some of Ashley’s memories are wrong. Look at her testimony. First she said one thing, and then another. I need to know why that happened.”

Peter sighs. “I get it, but she’s a human being, Zain. She’s not a robot. You can’t just march in there and make demands.”

I give him a sidelong glance. “Can’t I? It worked before. Don’t see why it won’t work again.”

“And isn’t that the reason she walked out in the first place?”

“It’s different this time.”

“Is it? I’ll talk to her, but if she refuses?—”

“Then I’ll change her mind.” I’ll camp outside her house and refuse to leave until she agrees to help me.

He snorts. “I wish I had your confidence.”

We drive the rest of the way in silence, and the longer I sit in the car, the more the tension crawls back up my spine. There’s no going back from this. Ashley needs to come back to Whitstone.

When Peter pulls up in front of a house, I finally look up from doom scrolling on my cell.

This is where she lives. In a house. With all the freedoms that come with it. While I spent fourteen years in a prison cell. There’s a world of difference between where her life went and where mine did.

I spent years in a space barely big enough to stretch out, staring at the same gray walls, hearing the same sounds of clanging bars and shouting guards. My view was steel bars and concrete. Hers is probably a quiet street with people passing by without a care in the world. It’s hard to wrap my head around it.

How did two people who were part of the same tragedy end up living such different lives?

She got a chance to move on and make something of her life. I got nothing but my obsession with revenge to keep me sane.

For the first time since being released, the familiar anger that usually accompanies my thoughts about our differences doesn’t appear. Instead, I just feel … sad.

Peter unbuckles his seatbelt and glances at me. “Stay here.”

“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

I track him as he crosses the road and pushes the doorbell, the fingers of one hand tapping restlessly against my knee. I glance around the neighborhood, taking in the clean sidewalks, the window boxes full of flowers, the trees dotted along the sidewalk. Everything looks so … perfect.

So fucking normal.

The door opens, and I catch a quick glimpse of dark hair. I don’t know if it’s Ashley or one of her housemates. After ten seconds or so, the door opens wider, and Peter steps inside.