Page 28 of Ruthless Intent

I try to slam the door, but I’m not fast enough. Zain’s palm hits the wood, and it bounces back, almost smacking me in the face. My automatic reaction is to jump back, and he uses that to his advantage. He’s inside, with the door closed behind him, before I can stop him.

“Get out.”

“Our unexpected meeting this morning got me thinking.” He ignores my demand to leave, and strolls toward me, as though he has every right to be here.

I back away. “This is grounds for harassment.”

“Is it? Did you ask your mom about what really happened?”

“If you don’t leave, I’m going to call the police.”

“You threatened to do that this morning. Go ahead.”

I take my cell out of my pocket and dial 911. Zain stands in front of me, one corner of his mouth tipped up, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his pants.

“You should know that if you complete that call, the police will come … but it’ll be to arrest your mom.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“911. What’s the nature of your emergency?” A woman’s voice sounds through the speaker.

“Why would they arrest her?”

“Hello? Is everything okay?”

“Hang up, and I’ll tell you.” He nods toward my cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Don’t you think the police would be interested to learn that your dad asked your mom for a divorce the day before they found his son dead?” His voice is pitched low. I’m not sure whether the woman on the call can hear him.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

He plucks the cell from my hand and lifts it to his ear. “I’m sorry. It was an accidental dial. I apologize for wasting your time.” He cuts the call and pockets the phone. “Why don’t we go through to the kitchen and talk?”

“No. I want you to get the fuck out of my house!” I’m shouting by the end of the sentence.

He ignores me, steps around me and walks along the hallway. I stare at his receding back, my jaw hanging, then catch myself. Snapping my mouth closed, I dart after him, grab his arm and force him to stop.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I might as well not have bothered for all the effect my grip on him has. He continues his forward motion.

“I told you.” His voice is patient, like he’s explaining something to a child. “We need to talk.”

“No. No, we don’t! I have nothing to say to you. And you have nothing I want to hear.”

He pauses in the middle of pulling a chair out from beneath the kitchen table. “Oh, I assure you, Ashley, what I have to say is something that you really need to hear. Sit down.”

“No.”

He shrugs, and sits, stretching his legs out in front of him. “The way I see it. You owe me. And I’m here to collect.”

“I owe you? Owe you what, exactly?”

“Fourteen years, seven months, two weeks, three days …” He makes a show of peeling back his sleeve to check the time on his watch. “Twenty hours, seventeen minutes, and five seconds.” His gaze lifts to meet mine, and I’m rocked back by the malice in his eyes. “That’s exactly what you owe me.” He straightens the cuff of his sleeve, and uses one foot to push out the chair beside him. “Now, sit the fuck down.”

“Give me my phone and fuck off.” I turn away, looking for the landline I’m sure my mom still has plugged in somewhere.

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