Page 26 of Ruthless Intent

My gaze skitters across the walls until I focus on the stairs.

I have to leave. Get away from here. I was an idiot for coming home when I knew … knew he would come here. I thought I’d have a few days before he arrived. I should have known better.

I should have listened to my gut. It warned me that I needed to run. To hide. To find the deepest, darkest hole, and stay in it.

I dash up the stairs, and find my case so I can throw clothes into it.

I’ll leave Mom a note. She’ll understand. It’ll be fine.

Dragging it down the stairs, I pull on my jacket, check my car keys are in the pocket, and open the door, just as someone pounds on it from the outside.

“Hello again, Ashley.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ZAIN

The reunion with my family is difficult. Sondra and Marissa start crying the second I walk into the room. My mom won’t stop hugging me, and my dad keeps patting my arm.

I should be overwhelmed by the emotion of the moment. Being here, in this room, with everyone is the final event that proves I’m free. Yet, aside from that single moment on the drive when I caught the scent of my mom’s perfume, I feel nothing. It’s like I’m empty inside.

I can appreciate that they’re emotional, excited to see me, happy I’m home. I’m happy to be home. But there are too many people, too much noise, and I’m looking for an excuse to escape within fifteen minutes of walking into the house.

My mind wants to shut down. My body wants to retreat to somewhere quiet.

Logically, I know it’s because I need to allow myself more time to transition from being in prison to being free. But I don’t know how to get that across without upsetting everyone, so I take a clinical approach.

“Do you mind if I go and freshen up? It’s been a long twenty-four hours.” I check the time on my watch. “My attorney will be here soon. There’s still a few bits of paperwork to sort out.” I press a kiss to my mom’s head, then another to Marissa’s. “Thank you for coming. I promise we’ll catch up properly later. I just … I need to?—”

Marissa’s smile is gentle. “I get it. It’s a lot to take in.” She leans closer and kisses my cheek. “Jason would be so proud of you.” Her voice is pitched low, so only I can hear her.

I pat her hand. “That means a lot.” I look around the room. “If you’ll excuse me?”

“Of course, darling.” Mom squeezes my hand. “You’re in your old bedroom.”

“Thank you.” I retreat out of the room, and up the stairs before anyone can stop me.

Once I’m in the bedroom, I close the door and lean back against it, letting my eyes close.

It’s odd being surrounded by people who I grew up with and love, yet I feel like a stranger. Like an imposter. They’re all treating me like the boy I was. They don’t know who I am, what I had to do to survive. Who I’ve become.

My head hurts. I’m sure it’s stress mixed with anxiety. I feel like I don’t belong in my own skin. And when I lift a hand to rub my temple, it shakes.

Am I going to wake up in my cell? Is this all a dream? It doesn’t feel real.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had a dream of freedom that felt so real when I woke up it took time to realize I was still in prison.

I’m lucky I don’t live in a state that issues a death sentence, because I’m certain that would have been my fate.

As it was, I found out that convicts have their own set of morals, and when it was discovered that I’d murdered a woman, I became a target. After my third beating within two weeks of arriving, leaving me with broken ribs and a broken nose, I was moved to solitary confinement.

For six months, I had nothing to do except work out and read, so by the time I was sent back into general population, I was a very different person to the boy who went in. The next man who tried to attack me ended up in the prison medical wing with a broken arm, three broken ribs, missing teeth, and a broken jaw. I was sent back to solitary for another month.

But it sent the message that I wasn’t to be messed with. It also meant I spent a lot of time alone. They didn’t trust me to be able to share a cell with anyone. And I was moved to a wing where socializing with other prisoners was only done under closely guarded times, and never for long periods.

Eight years into my incarceration, a new guy was brought in and placed in my cell with me. That meeting would be the catalyst to a series of events that would change everything for me.

Once the headache eases, I push away from the door, and cross the room to where my suitcase has been left on the bed. I take my time unpacking, in the hope that everyone who doesn’t live here has left by the time I go back downstairs. But there’s only so long it can take to unpack one suitcase.

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