Ruthless Regret (Ruthless Games Duology #2)

Chapter 40

CHAPTER FORTY

ASHLEY

Someone else was here.

I don’t know why I’m so certain of that, but I am.

My heart is pounding, hitting my ribs like it’s trying to break free.

Someone else was here.

The words feel foreign, wrong , like they don’t belong in my mouth. But I know they’re true. I can’t explain why I know it’s true, but I do.

“Ashley?” Zain’s voice is gentle, his palms warm against my cheeks, and the strangeness of it all cuts through the panic building inside my head. “Are you okay?”

I pull free from his grip, shaking my head, still trying to grasp at the wisps of memory. “I don’t … It’s not clear. Just a shadow. A presence. But I know someone was here.”

“Take a minute. Focus on your breathing. Was it before you saw me or after?”

“I don’t know.” My hands are shaking. “It’s all jumbled. I see you, covered in blood. But there’s something else, something I can’t quite …”

A wave of nausea hits me, and I stumble back. Zain catches me, one hand on my arm.

“Steady. Why don’t we go and get some air?”

I nod. “Please. I can’t …I don’t want to be in here anymore.”

His hand slides around my waist, an oddly comforting presence as he guides me out of the room and down the stairs. I walk slowly, but Zain doesn't complain, matching his pace to mine.

When we reach the front door, he drops his arm and turns to face me. His eyes search mine, and there’s an expression on his face that I can’t quite read.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else you can remember? Don’t try to force it, but if anything comes to mind …”

I close my eyes, willing the memories to surface, but all I see is that persistent shadow.

“No, I’m sorry. I just … I can’t remember.”

“That’s okay. Maybe it’ll come to you later.” He reaches past me and opens the front door.

I step outside, and take a deep breath, taking in a lungful of fresh air. We’re halfway to the car when Zain’s phone rings.

He answers, with a clipped, “Hello.”

I can’t hear who speaks, and Zain’s replies don’t give any hint. I watch his face, trying to read his expression, but he gives nothing away.

“Okay, thanks.” He hangs up. “That was Peter. He arranged to get the partial print analyzed.”

My heart rate increases. “And? Who did it belong to?”

“Detective Ramsey.”

I blink, processing the information.

“Oh … I guess that makes sense, doesn’t it?”

He nods. “Yeah. Not exactly the breakthrough I was hoping for.”

“I’m sorry.” I sigh, leaning against the car.

“We still have your memory of someone else being here. That’s something we didn’t know before.”

I nod. “But I can’t even remember that clearly. It’s just shadows and fragments. That’s no help at all.” My voice is tight with frustration.

His hand finds my shoulder. “It’s a start.”

“Why are you being so positive?”

“Determined,” he corrects.

I look up at him. “What do we do now?”

“We go back to my house, and regroup. Maybe being away from here will help clear your head. We can go over everything else we know so far, and see if we can find any connections we missed.”

He opens the car door for me, and I climb in. I sit in the car while he goes back to the house to set the alarm and lock the door. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re missing something important. But Zain is right. I need to get away from here, put some space between me and this house.

When he joins me in the car, I close my eyes and lean my head back against the seat. The rhythm of the drive—accelerating, turning, stopping— is oddly soothing. The outside world slides by, while inside, I remain in this bubble of controlled movement and engineered noise.

"You okay?" Zain breaks the silence after a few minutes.

I open my eyes and turn to look at him. "I don't know. I feel like I'm losing my mind."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I'm certain there was someone else there, but I can't remember who or why or ... anything concrete. What if I'm just making it up?"

He shakes his head. "You're not making it up."

There’s not really anything else I can say, so I look out the window. The familiar streets of Whitstone pass by, but they feel different now.

Everything feels different. It all keeps coming back to that.

When we arrive back at Zain's house, we head inside, and he leads the way to the living room.

"Sit," he says, gesturing to the couch. "I'll make us some drinks."

I nod, sinking onto the soft cushions. While Zain is in the kitchen, I close my eyes again, trying to focus on the shadow in my memory. But it's like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands—the more I reach for it, the more it slips away.

He returns a few minutes later with two mugs, and hands one to me before crossing the room to sit in the armchair.

"Okay," he says, leaning forward. "Let's try to piece this together. You're sure there was someone else in the house that night?"

I wrap my hands around the warm mug. "I am. But it's like a shadow in my memory. I can't see a face or hear a voice. It's just a presence."

He frowns. "And you can't place when this presence was there? Before you saw me, or after?"

I shake my head. "No. It's all jumbled up. I see you covered in blood, I see Jason and Louisa, and then there's this ... shadow . But I can't put it in order."

"What about the feeling you had when you entered the house? You mentioned earlier that something felt off."

I close my eyes, trying to recall that moment. "The front door was open. I remember calling out for Jason, but no one answered. And then there was this feeling. Like someone was watching me."

He leans forward, his eyes intense. "Could that have been the presence you're remembering?"

"Maybe," I say slowly. "But why can't I remember more? Why is it all so vague?"

He’s quiet for a moment, his fingers tapping against his mug. "Trauma can do strange things to memory. And if someone did manipulate you between your two police interviews …"

The idea sends a chill down my spine. "You really think someone could have done that?"

"It's possible," he says. "At least, it would explain why your memory changed between interviews."

"So what do we do?"

Zain sets his mug down. "We need to find a way to access those buried memories.”

"But how ? It's not like I can just will myself to remember."

"My mom might be able to help. She was the one who raised the idea of false memories in the first place. If she can’t help, she’ll know someone who can."

The idea of working with Zain's mother makes me uneasy. "I don't know, Zain. Your family doesn't exactly like me."

"This isn't about like or dislike. It's about finding the truth. And my mom’s a professional. She'd put her personal feelings aside for this."

"You really think she could help?"

"I do.”

I take a deep breath. The thought of digging into my memories, of potentially uncovering truths I've buried, is terrifying. But I know it's necessary.

"Okay," I say finally. "Let's do it. Let's talk to your mom."

"I'll give her a call."