Page 13 of Ruthless Intent

I’d prefer to drive myself, but I’m not in a position to do that right now. The car I had before I lost my freedom is probably rotting away in an impound lot somewhere or crushed, or sold. It was parked on the drive outside the house the night of the murder, and I’m sure the police would have taken it to test for DNA or evidence.

“Zain?” My attorney’s voice drags me back to the present.

“Yeah, a driver would be great. Thanks.”

“Do you have everything else you need?”

“My house keys were in the pile of belongings they gave back to me.” I scratch my jaw. “Hopefully they still work. The gate fob might need a new battery.”

“I’ve already replaced it.” He hands me a box. “You’ll find house keys, and a new remote control for the electric gates inside. The house is fine. I hired a firm to go in and clean it, ready for your return.”

“Clean it?”

“It’s been sitting empty for fourteen years. So I instructed them to air the rooms, and make sure there’s food and drink. I want your return to go smoothly, since you’re set on this course of action.”

Smooth is the one thing my return to Whitstone won’t be, but I don’t disagree with him.

“Thanks.”

Peter gets to his feet, and tucks the folder beneath one arm. “I’ll keep you updated on the compensation appeal.”

I stand and hold out a hand. “I mean it, Peter. Thank you. For everything.”

He grasps my hand between both of his. “You’re very welcome. Now, let’s focus on tying up the loose ends so you can move on with your life.”

I walk to the door of the suite with him.

“Order room service and stay here tonight. If you listen to nothing else I say, do this one thing. Give yourself today. Watch television, eat junk food, get used to being out of that cell, and sleep.”

Truth be told, despite my complaints about the security guards keeping me inside, I have no interest in venturing out, so I summon up a smile, and nod. It’s been a long day. The mental gymnastics of keeping a neutral expression in front of the judge, then the reporters, followed by an hour alone has taken its toll. Food and sleep sounds good. Better than good, in fact.

“That’s the plan. I want to get an early start. I’d like to be in Whitstone before lunchtime tomorrow. Could you call my parents and let them know?”

There’s a moment of silence, while he frowns at me.

“Haven’t you spoken to them?”

I shake my head. “I don’t have anyone’s number.”

“I can get those for you.”

“No. Just call them and say I’ll be home tomorrow.” I can’t explain it. But I’m not ready to talk to anyone from my past just yet.

“Okay, I’m off. I need to get back to the office before everyone quits for the day. I’ll have the driver pick you up at eight.” He pulls open the door and steps into the hallway beyond. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow. Go back inside.” He waves a hand and I step back so he can close the door.

Once I’m alone, I find the room service menu and flick through it. I don’t recognize half of the items, but eventually settle on grilled cheese and a side of onion rings. I don’t think anyone can go wrong with that.

I place the order, wait for it to arrive, then spend the next hour channel hopping while I eat, never staying on anything long enough to really get to know what it is before changing the channel.

Afternoon turns into evening. I don’t move from the couch, until ten o’clock rolls around, at which point I relocate to the bedroom …

… And it’s at that moment I realize that I’m about to go to bed, because that’s when it’s light’s out in prison.

“Fuck.” I drag a hand through my hair, and eye the bed. It’s too big, too soft. The room is too open with its high ceilings and floor to ceiling window. I can feel a panic attack building, so I do the first thing that comes to my head.

I drag the coverlet off, grab a pillow, and carry them into the bathroom. This room is smaller, not quite eight by ten but almost. Tossing the bedding onto the floor, I walk back to the door, turn the lock and then rest my hand on the light switch.

“Lights out,” I mutter, and plunge the room into darkness.

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