Ruthless Regret (Ruthless Games Duology #2)

Chapter 38

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

ASHLEY

I can’t tell if he’s irritated or just tired. There’s a gruffness to his voice that could mean either.

If he really spent the night in here, did he sleep at all?

“I should get up, and take a shower.” It’s a lame excuse to break the silence.

“Go ahead,” he says in the same tone, and stands up. “I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready to get started.” And then he’s gone, the door closing on his back before I can say another word.

I stay where I am for a minute or two, letting the silence of the room wash over me, then give myself a mental shake, throw off the sheets and climb out of bed. Lifting my suitcase onto the bed, I throw it open and pick out clothes, and my wash bag, and head into the bathroom to take a shower.

The hot water eases some of the tension in my muscles, and washes away some of the lingering unease, but it doesn’t help me find answers for the weird shift between us.

Maybe I just imagined it.

I’m here. I agreed to work with him to find the truth. I have no idea how to navigate whatever is going on between us, or what it means. Maybe he’s trying to keep me from walking away again.

By the time I’m dressed, I feel more like myself again, and set off downstairs. Following the faint sound of clinking cups, I find him in the kitchen, pouring coffee. His back is to me, but when I walk in, he glances over his shoulder. He looks like he’s also showered. His hair is slightly damp, and he’s changed out of the white shirt and pants he was wearing, and is now in a black long-sleeved T-shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, displaying colorful tattoos on both arms, and black jeans.

“You okay?” he asks as soon as I step into the room.

“Fine. You?”

He nods, and hands me a mug.

I’m surprised to see it’s tea. I wrap my fingers around it, and carry it over to the table, where I sit down. He follows me, taking the seat on the opposite side of the table, and sits back, sipping his coffee.

The silence stretches between us, awkward and thick, and I fiddle with the edge of my sleeve, trying to think of a way to start a conversation that won’t sound forced.

“So … what now?” My voice is a little too bright, and one dark eyebrow lifts on the man opposite me.

He takes another sip of coffee before answering. “You’re not going to like my suggestion.”

My stomach flips. “What does that mean?”

He leans back on his chair, and eyes me over the rim of his mug. “There are holes in your memory. We need to figure out a way to access them.”

“I can’t remember a lot of my interview. It’s like … a blank space, and I don’t know why. I remember the second interview perfectly. But … the first part is missing. Do you think something was said to convince me to change it? And why don’t I remember?”

“It’s possible. The first part wasn’t admissible. You were underage and alone. But I don’t know how they could have convinced you to change your statement.” His fingers tap the edge of the table.

“Even now, knowing I was wrong, I can still see you holding that knife. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I know. There are too many things that don’t add up.”

“Why do you think the detectives ignored so much of the evidence?”

“Because they had a suspect, and it was easier to go with the person they had in custody. They had a witness, confirming my presence. Why bother chasing ghosts?”

There’s no inflection to his voice, but guilt washes over me anyway.

“Why don’t I remember anything about that night clearly? Everything I do remember feels off now. Like it’s been twisted to fit.”

“That’s one of the things we need to figure out.” He sets his mug down, and leans forward. The intensity in his expression sends a shiver down my spine.

He’s about to say something I’m not going to like. I know it.

“We need to go back to the house.”

The words hit me hard. I shake my head. “No. No, I’m not going back there.”

“It’s the only way.” He says it so simply, like it’s a foregone conclusion.

“No. Why? No.” The idea of going back there twists my stomach into knots.

“You remembered that I wasn’t holding a knife last time you were in there.”

“You locked me in there, Zain. Trapped me for hours in the room where my brother was murdered.” My voice is shrill.

His expression doesn’t change. “I know.”

“Are you trying to claim you did it to get me to remember? You didn’t even know I had missing memories at the time!”

“No. I wanted to scare you. I wanted you to know that I was the one in control. That you couldn’t escape me.”

My breath hitches at his admission, and the matter-of-fact way he delivers it, but it’s not exactly a revelation. It was obvious why he was doing it.

“And now? Are you still trying to scare me? Control me?”

He sits back, tension crackling between us. It should be an easy question to answer, but he doesn’t say a word. Not for at least a minute.

“No. No, I’m not trying to scare you or control you,” he says eventually, voice low. “But I do think going back to the house is important.”

I shake my head. “I can’t.”

“You need to.”

I jump to my feet and pace the kitchen. “I’m not going back there. You think forcing me into that room again is going to help? I came out of it hating you more. You can’t make me.”

Zain doesn’t flinch, gaze steady as he watches me pace around the room. “I didn’t care if you hated me. That was the point.”

I whirl around, facing him again. “And now?” The demand leaves my lips before I can stop it.

“Now we have a chance to figure out what you really saw that night.” His voice softens slightly. “We can’t do that unless you stop running from it.”

My fingers clench into fists. “I’m not running. I was surviving. There’s a difference.”

“Surviving isn’t living, Firecracker.” His words hit harder than I want to admit.

“You can’t force me to go back there.”

“I’m not going to. If you really can’t do it, then we won’t.”

I stare at him. This man wanted to control me, wanted me to fear him. But there’s something else in his voice now, something that makes me pause.

I wrap my arms around myself. “You really think going back there will achieve anything?”

“I think it’s the only thing we’ve got. If you’ve blocked out the memory of your first interview, and your memory changed from seeing me with a knife to without it, then there might be something else. And the only way we have to try and trigger that is to go back.”

“I don’t need to be in that house to remember. I don’t want to play these games with you, Zain.”

Zain stands up, his movements slow and deliberate. “This isn’t a game anymore. I don’t want to hurt you, Ashley, and I know going back there is going to do just that, but I need you to do this.”

I feel trapped, like the walls are closing in around me. But deep down, I know he’s right. That house, that room , might hold the answers I’m searching for.

“I don’t want to go back there,” I whisper, my voice breaking.

“I know.”