Page 133 of Ruthless Intent

There’s no one around. No people, no cars. It’s too early for early morning traffic. Hours before anyone will be thinking about going to work. There isn’t even anyone walking their dogs.

It reminds me of mornings in prison. The lack of people, the silence, reminds me of that time before everyone woke up and started shouting at each other through the doors of their cells. It’s strangely comforting.

I list how the mornings used to go in my head as I jog along the sidewalk.

Get up, strip search, out into the yard for an hour, then it was back inside with minimal interaction, no mingling with other prisoners, shower, and back in my cell.

We had a couple of hours throughout the day where we could have leisure time and mix with other people. But the prison block I was in housed some very dangerous people, and the wardens didn’t like us to spend too much time together.

My run takes me toward the outskirts of town, and along the edge of the forest that wraps around one side. When I reach the sign welcoming people to Whitstone, I turn and retrace my steps back toward town.

A car passes me, stops, and reverses then keeps pace beside me. I ignore them. If they want something, they’ll say so. If they’re trying to intimidate me, they’re in for a surprise. Eventually the window lowers.

“You’re Zain Ryder.”

I keep jogging.

“What was it like? In prison, I mean?”

I glance at the man … boy, really. He looks around the same age I was when I was imprisoned. Young, fresh faced, and unaware of how shit life can be.

“It’s not something I’d recommend.”

“Did you do it?”

“No.”

“Then why did they arrest you?”

I stop. “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m just interested. I love watching true crime shows. There are a few about what happened to you. They all think it was fucked up.”

I laugh at that. The kid has no idea just how fucked up it was.

“What do you mean there are a few?” There are documentaries about the murders?

“You don’t know? They’re on YouTube. Search for your name, and trial. They’ll pop up. Most of them think you’re innocent.”

Interesting.

He leans out of the window. “It makes no sense, man. There are inconsistencies in the reports.”

“How do you know that?”

“Some of the investigators got hold of them. Like the knife. They never did find it after the trial.”

I flashback to walking into the room that night. The knife was on the floor.

Was it shown as evidence in the trial? I don’t remember. So much of it is a blur.

“—Trumont left town as soon as she graduated high school. She couldn’t get out of here fast enough. Why wasn’t she a suspect?”

Ashley?

I don’t reply to his question.

“I’ll be watching your interview later. But I just wanted you to know that not everyone in town thinks you did it.”

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