Page 105 of Ruthless Intent

“Zain? It’s Sheriff McFadden. I’m just checking to make sure you’re still stopping by to see me?”

“What?” I glance at the time. Two-fifteen. Fuck. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m on my way now.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

ASHLEY

We’re sitting in the kitchen drinking tea, when an older man walks through the door. It’s obvious from the moment I look at him that he’s Zain’s dad. The resemblance between the two men is impossible to ignore.

He gives me a slightly questioning look before walking past me to bend and press a kiss to his wife’s cheek.

“You didn’t tell me we had company.”

She smiles up at him. “Kyle, this is Ashley. Zain dropped her and ran earlier.”

The slight frown on his face deepens. “Ashley … Trumont?”

“The very same.” Heather pats his hand. “We’ve been having a lovely conversation.”

“I’m sure you have, but?—”

“Zain brought her here.” Her voice is firm.

He looks at me, then down at his wife, and sighs. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

The upheaval I must have caused this family all those years ago is a heavy weight in the pit of my stomach. I don’t think it’s something I’ll ever be able to fix, but I wish I could.

I set my cup down before it gives away how much my hands are shaking, and the overhead light catches on the ring on my finger. In my haste to hide it, I spill the tea down my top.

“Oh!” I jump to my feet, pulling the material away from my chest.

“Oh dear.” Heather stands up and hurries across the room. She’s back a second later with a handful of paper towels. “Did it burn you? Are you okay?”

I shake my head, taking the paper towels from her and dab at the front of my T-shirt. “It wasn’t hot, thankfully.”

“Let me find you something else to wear.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Honey, it’s going to stain your top.” She’s out of the door before I can protest further, and silence falls across the room.

I shift from one foot to the next, and keep my gaze trained on the wet patch of my T-shirt.

“She’s missed being able to mother someone.”

My mouth dries up at his words. There’s no accusation in them, just sadness.

“I’m sorry.” It doesn’t matter how many times I say it, it’s never going to be enough.

How can you apologize for destroying someone’s life the way I did?

“Can I ask why? Did he do something to make you hate him so much that you felt you had to lie?”

I shake my head. “No. No, I barely knew Zain. That’s not what happened.”

“Then why?”

I bite my lip. It’d been so easy to talk to Zain’s mom, but his dad looks too much like the man himself, and he hasn’t been interested in listening to what I have to say.

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