Page 7 of Ruthless Intent

“That’d be nice. It’s been a while since you came to visit. But won’t that defeat the reason you changed your name and moved away?”

She’s not wrong, but it’s not like I’ll be sending out a press release announcing who I really am. Everyone already knows who I am back there. It’s the rest of the country that doesn’t, and that’s where it’s important I’m not viewed as the murdered Jason Trumont’s kid sister.

“I want to go and visit Jason’s grave.”

“Well, you know your room is always waiting for you. Just let me know when you’re going to arrive so I can air it out before you get here.” Her voice turns brisk. “I hate to cut this short, but I have to go, honey. I’m meeting friends in half an hour and I have to finish getting ready and drive across town to Randall’s.”

Randall’s is a coffee shop in the town where I grew up. Mom has been meeting with her friends there every week for as long as I can remember, for coffee and gossip.

“Say hi to them for me.”

“I will. Will Scott be joining you when you come home?”

Shit. Scott.

In my shock at hearing about Zain, I forgot all about him. He has no idea about my past, and I’d rather keep it that way. Every time he’s met my mother, I’ve made her swear not to say anything about Jason. I’ve never taken him back to Whitstone with me. Mom has always come to visit me here.

“No. He won’t be able to get time off work at such short notice, so I’ll be alone.”

“That’s a shame. It would be nice to see him again.”

“Next time you come to visit, I’ll make sure he’s available.”

The conversation turns briefly to how much Mom likes Scott, and I end the call feeling a lot more relaxed than I had when it started.

She’s right. I’m worrying for nothing. Zain will have more important things to deal with than singling out one person who took the stand in his trial. The shock of hearing about his release sent me into a blind panic, but now that I’m calmer I can see that I was overreacting.

I’ll go home, visit Jason’s grave, spend a couple of days with my mom, then come back here and return to my life where no one knows who I am.

CHAPTER FOUR

ZAIN

The security detail Peter hired whisks me through the hotel check-in with minimal fuss. I’m handed a keycard, informed that I won’t be able to access the elevator without it, and given a list of all the amenities available by the man on the desk in a bored voice. He gives no sign that he recognizes me, which I appreciate, and once he’s done, he points me toward the elevators. Two of the security guards come with me, taking up silent positions in the elevator and stopping anyone else from entering. I consider asking them to let people board, then change my mind. I don’t want to be stuck in a small space with someone who saw the news reports. The third guy remains behind in the lobby.

When the doors slide open on my floor, security guard number one goes first. The other walks behind me, then makes me wait outside the door, while his partner checks inside. I find it a little weird. As though I’m some kind of celebrity who needs their room checked for groupies or crazy fans. But I know it’s not because they’re checking for fans, they’re checking for people who still believe I did the crime and want me dead.

It takes him five minutes to come out and confirm it’s empty.

“We’ll be outside if you need anything,” one says when I walk past him, and step inside.

“There’s really no need.”

“Part of the job, sir.” Neither of them wait to hear what I have to say in return, stepping out into the hallway and pulling the door closed behind them.

I sigh, and turn to face the room. The suite, I correct myself, when I spot the doors on the opposite side of the room.

I dump my small bag of belongings on the closest flat surface and move deeper into the main room. The hotel suite Peter arranged for me is luxurious. Granted, anything with a separate bathroom would seem that way after living in an eight-by-ten cell for fourteen years.

The silence is unnerving. Even at night, after the lights had gone out, there was always noise in the prison block. Snores, groans, and grunts. The occasional scream to break up the monotony. I added my fair share of it all, especially in the first few months of my incarceration.

Looking the way I did, and being placed in a prison full of murderers, rapists, and other hardcore criminals meant I had to learn fast how to look after myself. That, become someone’s bitch, or die. And I had no intention of doing either of the latter.

Pushing open the bedroom door, I look inside. The bed is large enough to sleep at least three. An observation that twists my lips.

Memories of nights where the three of us played together, whispered to each other, and slept in a tangle of limbs assail me, and I force them away. While they are something I’ll forever hold close, it’s not a situation I ever want to get into again.

I drag my eyes away from the bed, and make my way across the room to the door set in the opposite wall. Beyond it is a bathroom containing a tub, a walk-in shower, a toilet, twin-sinks and the usual cabinets. The shower calls to me, and I let the temptation of decent water pressure, hot water, and not having to be on guard, or on a time limit seduce me.

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