Ruthless Regret (Ruthless Games Duology #2)

Chapter 44

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

ASHLEY

"Before we go, I have something for you," Zain says as we're about to leave the house. He disappears back down the hallway and into the kitchen, then returns a few minutes later with a familiar object in his hand. "Your phone. I meant to give it back to you the other day after the interview, but with everything that happened after …"

I take it from him, feeling a mix of relief and surprise. I turn it over in my hands. I should tell him I bought a new one, but I don’t. It might ruin the tentative peace between us.

"Thanks."

A flicker of something—regret maybe?—crosses his face. "I shouldn't have taken it. I'm sorry."

The apology catches me off guard. It's such a small thing compared to everything else, but it feels significant somehow. I nod, not quite sure how to respond.

We head out to the car, and the drive to the diner is quiet. I find myself stealing glances at Zain, trying to reconcile this version of him—the one who returns phones and offers apologies—with the man who blackmailed me into marriage and threatened to have my mom arrested just days ago.

The diner isn’t busy when we walk in, just a handful of patrons scattered at the tables. Zain leads the way to a booth in the corner, sliding in across from me. The vinyl seat squeaks as I sit down.

"So," he says, his eyes scanning the laminated page in front of him, "are you ready for this? Facing Holson, I mean."

I take a deep breath, considering his question. "I think so. But it still feels ... I don't know, surreal maybe?"

His gaze lifts to meet mine. "Yeah, I get that."

"What if he doesn't tell us anything new? What if we're just chasing ghosts?"

His expression hardens slightly. "Then I’ll keep searching."

The waitress interrupts, taking our orders, and I take the opportunity to study his face while he’s distracted. The hard lines I've become so familiar with are still there, but there's something else now. A weariness, maybe? Or is it uncertainty? Stress from the situation we’re in?

"What?" he asks when she leaves.

I shake my head. "Nothing. Just ... thinking."

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn't push and we fall into silence.

I’m acutely aware of how strange this is. Sitting in a diner with Zain, like we're just two normal people having lunch. Not a woman and the man she wrongly accused of murder.

"This is weird, isn't it?" I blurt out, and immediately regret it.

Zain's lips twitch, almost like he's suppressing a smile. "Yeah."

More silence. I cast around for something to say, anything to break this awkward tension. And before I can stop myself, before my brain can tell me it’s the worst thing to say, words tumble out.

"What did you do? In prison, I mean." As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to take them back. "I'm sorry, that was insensitive. You don't have to answer that."

But he just shrugs. "I read a lot. Worked out. Tried to keep my head down and stay out of trouble." His eyes meet mine, and there's a challenge there. "What about you? What have you been doing for the past fourteen years?"

The question catches me off guard. "I ... I went to college. Got a job. Tried to build a life, I guess." The words sound hollow, even to my own ears.

"And did you? Build a life, I mean?"

I think about the house I share with my friends in New York, my job, Scott. The life I thought I wanted.

"I thought I had," I admit. "But now ... I'm not so sure."

Zain doesn't respond, but something in his expression shifts. Before I can decipher it, our food arrives, giving me an excuse to look away.

“Do you ever think about ..." I start, then pause, uncertain how to phrase my question.

His head lifts. I take a deep breath.

"I'm so sorry. I know I've said it before, but I don't think I've ever truly expressed how sorry I am for what I did to you."

His fork stops halfway to his mouth. He sets it down slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.

"You were only twenty," I continue, my voice barely above a whisper. "I took away fourteen years of your life. I can't even begin to imagine what you went through in that prison because of me."

His jaw tightens. When he speaks, his voice is clipped, each word sharp and precise. "You're right. You can't imagine it."

I flinch at his tone. But before I can respond, he continues, his voice losing some of its edge but still guarded. "But you were just a kid. Manipulated by the system."

"I know my apology doesn't change anything. It doesn't give you back those years. But I need you to know that I will regret what I did for the rest of my life."

He’s quiet for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. Finally, he speaks, his tone neutral.

"I appreciate that. But you're right. It doesn't change what happened. A week ago, I’d have said that nothing you can say or do can make up for what you did back then." He lifts a hand and rubs the back of his neck. “A lot has changed in a week.”

I look back down at my plate, no longer hungry. His words aren't quite forgiveness, but they're not rejection either. I push my food around my plate, appetite gone.

Zain's phone buzzes, breaking the silence. He glances at the screen, then answers.

"McFadden," he says by way of greeting. "Alright. We'll be there as soon as we're done here." He hangs up. "They've got Holson at the station."

My heart rate picks up. "Should we go now?"

He shakes his head. "No, let's finish eating first. We might be there a while, and I'd rather face this with a clear head."

We return to our meals, but the atmosphere has changed again. The tension from before has been replaced by a strange mix of anticipation and dread.

When we’re done, Zain flags down the waitress for the check, ignores my offer to pay, and hands the waitress his credit card. Once she gives it back, we go back out to the car.

It only takes a couple of minutes to drive to the station. As we pull into the parking lot, my heart rate picks up speed.

This is it. We're about to face Holson, and hopefully uncover some of the truth we've been searching for.

He cuts the engine and turns to me. "You ready for this?"

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. "As ready as I'll ever be."

We walk into the station side by side, and I can't help but wonder what people must think, seeing us together like this. The wrongly convicted man and the girl whose testimony put him away.

McFadden is waiting for us in the lobby. "Ryder. Ms. Trumont, I didn’t expect you to be here. I thought you went back to New York."

“I did, but after talking to Zain, I decided I needed to come back and see this through. Have you found anything out about the man who attacked me?”

He shakes his head. “Unfortunately not. There was nothing at the scene that could give us a single lead. No one was seen near the property, or fleeing from it. But we’ll keep looking.” He nods at each of us in turn. "Follow me."

Zain's presence beside me is solid and reassuring, as we walk through the hallway. McFadden stops us just outside the door.

"Remember you're here as observers only. This is the viewing room. Stay in here, unless I ask you to come in. Understood?"

A muscle ticks in Zain’s jaw, but he nods.

"Ms. Trumont." McFadden turns to me, his expression softening slightly. "You don't have to be here for this if you don't want to be."

I lift my chin, meeting his gaze. "I want to be here. I need to know the truth."

He studies me for a moment, then nods. "Alright then. What is it you wanted me to ask him?”

“We wrote a list. I have it on my cell. Can I send it to you?” I take my phone out.

McFadden gives me his email address and I send the document I typed up to him.

He scans it, frowning, but doesn’t question us about anything listed. “Okay then, Let's do this."

As McFadden reaches for the door handle, I feel Zain's hand brush against mine. It's the briefest of touches, so light I might have imagined it, but when I glance at him, I can see the same determination in his eyes that I can feel coursing through me.

The door opens, and McFadden waves us into the viewing room.