Page 34 of Ruthless Intent

That’s where I pull into after leaving Ashley with the police, then sit there with the engine running.

The last time I was here was the day I walked into a nightmare.

My fingers flex on the steering wheel.

“Just go inside. Get it over with.”

I take the key out of the ignition. Silence falls. My hand is a little unsteady when I reach for the door, and open it.

The summer sun does little to warm me as I make my way from the drive to the front door. I press my palm to the wood, and close my eyes, so I can focus on my breathing. Once I’m certain I’m in control of myself, I unlock the door and step into the hallway … and am transported back to the past.

Louisa twirls her way down the hallway, arms above her head, skirt billowing out, like a ballerina on speed. Her laughter echoes off the walls. Jason drapes his arm across my shoulders, and we follow her into the kitchen. She’s sprawled on the large oak table when we enter, leaning back on her elbows.

“This table is bigger than my bed.” Her legs part, giving us both a flash of bare thighs. “We should christen it.”

“Christen it?” Jason’s arm drops and he moves closer so he can run his fingers lightly up her leg. “How? By dripping holy water on it?”

She laughs again. “Oh, we’ll be dripping something onto it, but it won’t be water.” She catches my eye over his shoulder. “What do you say, Zain? Shall we make our first memory right here?”

I throw my head back, sucking in a lungful of air, then walk along the hallway and into the kitchen. The relief that courses through me is undeniable when I discover the table from my memory is gone. Replaced by a dark mahogany round one, which sits in the corner of the room instead of the center.

I examine the room. Everything has been replaced, as per my instructions. The range cooker still has seals over the doors and on the stovetop, proclaiming its lack of use. A double-doored slate-gray refrigerator sits against the wall closest to the back door, and I cross the floor to open it.

I’m not really expecting to find anything inside, so I’m surprised when I discover bottles of water, and various types of soda. I guess Peter arranged for that as well as the cleaning. For all his comments about how I shouldn’t come here, he knew I would.

Retreating from the kitchen, I check the rest of the ground floor rooms. It’s like taking a step back in time, and memories hit me as I walk around, and by the time I’m standing at the base of the stairs, I’m almost panting with the effort it’s taking to stop myself from fleeing the house and never coming back.

I put one hand on the rail, and look up the stairs.

“Come on, Zain. You can do this. You have to do it.” And slowly, step by step, I ascend the stairs until I’m standing at the top, and looking along the hallway at the closed doors. A flash of yellow catches my eye, and my heart stops.

There’s still police tape stuck to one of the doors. The cleaners must have missed it.

I’m standing outside it before I realize I’ve moved, my hand curled around the doorknob. And then it’s swinging open, the room beyond revealing itself almost in slow motion.

The gaudy throws pinned to the walls. The second-hand shelving unit bursting with books about every conceivable subject. A half-drunk bottle of vodka sits on top of the card table, with a pack of playing cards spread out beside it.

A jacket is hanging on a hook beside where I’m standing, a pair of sneakers on the floor beneath it.

The room is clean, tidy, the sun shining through the window. It’s like a moment frozen in time.

But in my head, it’s dark, dull, and smells of blood and death.

My gaze moves across the overstuffed bookcases, the bed with its fresh linen, then comes to a stop on the large multi-colored rug the bed is sitting on.

“Fuck.” My gaze locks onto the brownish pattern that looks like it started beneath the bed and spread outward, marring the bright colors.

To hell with my plan. What the fuck am I thinking? Nothing fucking matters.

And just like that the battle to keep myself in check is lost. I sink to my knees on the threshold, and bury my face into my hands.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

ASHLEY

My cell rings as I’m stepping out of the shower. I grab a towel, wrap it around my body and run, dripping, across the room to where I left it beside the sink. The caller ID makes me pause before I connect the call.

Scott!

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