Page 82 of Ruthless Intent

For five fear-filled minutes, when he stripped me out of my clothes, and threw me face down on the bed, I thought it wasn’t going to end there. But he never touched anything other than my arms, and when he let me go and I could face him, his gaze never moved from my face.

Sitting at the kitchen table in my underwear is uncomfortable. I feel vulnerable, and on display, but he barely even looks at me. My shoulders ache, and the handcuffs are digging into my wrists.

When he opens the lid on the laptop, my heartbeat speeds up.

What is he going to make me watch?

Please don’t let it be a video of Jason. Oh god, he didn’t record the murder, did he?

Don’t be ridiculous. That would prove he was guilty. He’s not that stupid.

When the screen opens on a room that isn’t Jason’s bedroom, relief makes me sag against the back of the chair. Relief that’s short lived when a male voice sounds through the laptop speaker.

“Hi, Ashley. I can call you Ashley, right?”

“How did you get this?” I shift my attention from the screen to the man on the opposite side of the kitchen.

He shrugs, but doesn’t turn around from whatever he’s doing. I’m not even sure he meant for me to see him shrug.

The voices on the screen draw me back, and I watch as the thirteen-year-old me buries her face into her hands and cries.

It’s so strange. I don’t remember this. I don’t remember being alone with the detectives at all. Why is that? I remember my dad sitting beside me while I answered the detectives’ questions, but not this … Why don’t I remember this?

The screen freezes, and I blink.

“Did you catch that or were you daydreaming?” His cool tone makes me grind my teeth.

“Is this even real? My dad was there for my interview.”

“That’s your focus?” He rewinds the video. “Pay attention.” He clicks play again.

“You walked into the bedroom, and found Zain Ryder standing over their bodies with a knife.”

My stomach flips. I don’t want to think about that night, but those words burn the image into my brain again.

Zain standing over the bed, the two bodies of Jason and Louisa side by side. His hands are bloody, and he’s holding a knife in his right hand.

“N-no. He w-was there, b-but I don’t think he was holding anything.”

The voice of my younger self shatters the image.

What?

“This is fake. I never said that.”

“Shut the fuck up.” He rewinds it again.

“N-no. He w-was there, b-but I don’t think he was holding anything.”

“Are you sure, Ashley? This is important. Your brother and Louisa were murdered, in their beds, by someone with a knife. You found Zain Ryder in there. He must have had the knife.”

He did have the knife. I can see it clearly in my mind. But on the screen, I’m shaking my head.

“I … N-no. I didn’t s-see any knife.”

Zain rewinds the video again.

“I … N-no. I didn’t s-see any knife.”

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