Page 4 of Ruthless Intent

The memory of being given a drink during my interrogation surfaces. As a naive twenty-year-old, I’d taken the drink eagerly after hours of talking, pleading, begging them to believe my innocence. I hadn’t thought about how drinking it was giving them easy access to my DNA. I know better now. I’m a lot more cautious.

I shake my head. What does it matter? It’s not like they’re about to run it to match it against what they found at the crime scene again.

Been there. Done that.

Instead, I force myself to look around the room, and study the names of the books on the shelves in an attempt to continue keeping my anxiety at bay. They’re all law based. Some look old. Some shiny and new, their spines uncracked.

Are they just for show or does anyone actually take them down and read them?

My hand smooths over the tabletop, and once again, I’m taken back to that day so many years ago. There had been a metal loop on the table I’d been sitting at, and my handcuffs were hooked through it so I couldn’t stand up.

They weren’t taking any risks. I’d just murdered two people, after all.

I shake my head again, going through the steps to combat a panic attack once more.

Stop it. Stop thinking about it.

But how can I? What else is there to think about? I’ve just spent years locked in an eight by ten cell because of it. Fourteen years that have shaped my life, my thinking, the very bones of who I am.

Who am I? Do I even know anymore?

It’s a valid question, and one I think it’s going to take time to work out the answer to. I’m certainly not the kid who walked into prison at twenty years old, that’s for sure. Not anymore. That kid had been confident the system wouldn’t let him down, that he’d be found innocent, that he wouldn’t go to prison. My lawyer back then had suggested I take a plea deal. I’d refused. I wasn’t guilty. They wouldn’t convict me. I didn’t do anything wrong.

But they did.

And the man sitting in this room now is a completely different monster to the one they thought I’d been.

In my head, that fateful day plays again. I watch as the younger version of me protests his innocence. Explains everything that happened in an earnest tone, and then cries when the jury gives their guilty verdict.

A few months inside, and I lost the ability to cry. No tears, and no feelings. Don’t show anything. That was the rule I learned.

And I learned it hard, fast, and well.

No, I’m no longer the same boy who was imprisoned for a double homicide. Not even close.

The door opens, disturbing my thoughts, and I look up just as my attorney walks in.

“There are news vans surrounding the main entrance. I’ve just given them a statement, but they’re not leaving until you talk to them. I’ve asked if we can slip out through the fire escape at the back, and been given permission?—"

“I’ll talk to them.” My voice comes out cool and clipped—a far cry from the hoarse, terrified cries of the boy I once was.

“Zain—”

“Do you honestly believe no one is going to be lurking back there? If they haven’t considered the fact that I might sneak out that way, they should all be fired.”

He sighs, but doesn’t argue. He’s learned fast that once I’ve made a decision, he’s unlikely to sway me from it.

“Okay. Well, can we talk about what statement you’re going to make before we go out there?”

“Don’t you trust me, Peter?”

He laughs quietly at that. “I trust you. But I also know that the world has changed a lot since you were last out in it.”

“I’m offended.” I’m not. Not at all. And he knows it.

Rising to my feet, I take the jacket from the back of the chair and slip it on. The silk sleeves of the shirt covering my arms feels strange. I’m so used to wearing rough prison clothes that the soft material doesn’t feel right. Turning toward the mirror hanging on the wall, I adjust my tie, run my fingers through my hair, then face Peter.

“I’m ready.”

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