Ruthless Regret (Ruthless Games Duology #2)

Chapter 60

CHAPTER SIXTY

ASHLEY

The blood under my fingernails won't come off. I've scrubbed my hands raw in the bathroom, but traces of red still linger in the creases of my skin.

Zain's blood.

Marcus's blood.

All of it mixing together, staining me inside and out.

When Bishop calls me to say McFadden wants to talk to me, I dry my hands, and stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My face is white, my T-shirt stained red.

Bishop knocks on the door again. “Ashley?”

“You can do this,” I whisper, strip out of my shirt, and replace it with a clean one. Stiffening my spine, I walk to the door.

Bishop is standing on the other side.

“Remember what I said, keep your answers short. No long explanations, no embellishments. Keep it simple. Don't elaborate. Don't give him anything he can use.” He rests his hand against the small of my back and guides me out of the room and down the stairs.

We pause outside the kitchen.

“Ready?”

I take a deep breath and walk in. McFadden is standing in the center of the kitchen. I nod toward him, then pull out a chair and sit down. My hands are shaking, so I tuck them between my thighs as he takes the seat opposite me, his notebook open, pen poised.

The very sight of him makes my skin crawl.

"Walk me through what happened," he says, his voice gentle. Concerned. The perfect sheriff looking after a traumatized witness.

I focus on breathing. In through my nose, out through my mouth. Just like mom taught me after Jason died. After I found Zain standing over their bodies.

After McFadden stood in the shadows and watched me run.

"I was in the kitchen with Zain." My voice comes out steadier than I expect. "Someone broke in and attacked us."

The words feel rehearsed, wooden, but that's better than letting him see how close I am to falling apart. How the memories are crashing over me in waves now—his silhouette at the end of that driveway, watching as I ran out of the house, crying into my cell to emergency services. The same cold, calculating eyes that are studying me now.

"The kitchen is a mess," he says, his tone carefully neutral. "Blood on the floor, broken furniture. Looks like Zain put up quite a fight."

My stomach lurches. Bishop and Rook did what they could in the time they had, but there's only so much you can clean up in minutes. They focused on ... on dealing with Marcus, on making it look like he'd fled. But evidence of the violence remains—the overturned chairs, the shattered glass, the smears of blood that could belong to any of them.

I curl my fingers into my palms to stop them shaking. "Zain tried to protect me."

"And where did the intruder go?"

"Rook and Bishop arrived." I swallow past the lump in my throat. "When they came in, he ran." I force myself to meet McFadden's eyes. "I think ... I think it might have been the same person as before. The one who attacked me the first time."

McFadden's head snaps up, his eyes sharp with interest. "Are you sure?"

"Similar build. Similar height." I wrap my arms around myself, trying to stop the tremors running through my body. "I can't be certain because of the mask, but the way he moved, and he had a knife ..."

"This could be important." He leans forward, and I have to force myself not to recoil. "If it's the same person, that means they're specifically targeting you or Zain, and it wasn’t just a random home invasion. We need to figure out why."

His concern sounds so genuine that for a second, I almost doubt my memory. Almost convince myself I'm wrong about what I saw that night.

"Rook and Bishop's arrival was fortunate," he continues, making another note. "They were here to discuss the case?"

"Yes."

Keep it simple. Don't elaborate. Don't give him anything he can use. Bishop’s words repeat in my head.

"Zain's been working with them to find new leads."

"Good." He nods, like he's genuinely pleased by this development. "We need all the help we can get. Especially now that someone seems determined to stop us from finding the truth."

My throat closes up at the irony of his words. My hands start to shake again, and I press them harder into my lap. There's still blood under my nails. Still evidence of what happened embedded in my skin.

"I should get forensics in here," he says, looking around the kitchen. His gaze lingers on the dark stains on the floor, and my heart skips a beat. "Maybe we can pick up some trace evidence, something to help us identify him."

Bishop shifts closer from where he's been standing silently against the wall. His presence is the only thing keeping me from running screaming from the room.

"We should let Mrs. Ryder rest first," he suggests, his tone casual but firm. "She's been through enough today."

"Of course." McFadden stands, straightening his uniform. "I'll have deputies stationed outside, just to be safe." He pauses at the door. "The hospital will notify us when Zain's stable enough to give a statement. Could be a few days given the extent of his injuries. But between your statement and his, hopefully we can identify whoever's behind this."

The casualness in his voice as he talks about Zain's injuries makes my stomach turn. Like he hasn't orchestrated all of this. Like he didn't just try to have us both killed.

"One more thing—anything else you can tell me about him? Any distinguishing features, even something small?"

Is this a test? Does he know that I've remembered?

"No."

The door closes behind him, and I collapse forward, sucking in huge gulps of air. Bishop's hand lands on my back.

"Steady," he murmurs. "You did good."

"He was there." The words spill out before I can stop them. "That night, when I ran from the house. He was standing at the end of the driveway, watching. I remember now. I remember him."

Bishop's hand stills on my back. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." My voice breaks. "Oh god, what did you do with—" I can't finish the sentence.

"Marcus has been dealt with as best we could," he says, voice low. "But we didn't have time to clean everything. The scene will show signs of his presence, but nothing that can be traced back. As far as anyone can tell, he escaped during the chaos."

"But the blood—there was so much blood?—"

"Will be explained by Zain's injuries." He squeezes my shoulder. "Focus on playing your part. Can you do that?"

I think about Zain, fighting for his life in the hospital. About the blood that still stains my hands no matter how hard I scrub. About fourteen years of nightmares that suddenly make horrible sense.

"Yes," I whisper. "I can do that."

"Good girl." He straightens up. "Let's get you cleaned up. Then we'll go see him."

I nod, fighting back tears.

I can do this. I can hold it together.

I have to.

The image of Zain bleeding out on the kitchen floor flashes through my mind again. He has to survive this. He has to wake up.

Because if he doesn't, McFadden wins.