Page 83 of Ruthless Intent

“Did you hear that? Let me play it again.”

My teenage voice fills the room again … and again … and again.

“Stop!” I’d cover my ears if I could.

“What’s wrong? Didn’t think you’d ever be caught out in your lie? You got very lucky at the time, but I think Detective Holson knew exactly what he was doing. This part of the recording was inadmissible as evidence because of your age, and not having an adult there with you. So your admission that I didn’t have a fucking knife was never heard by the jury. The detective wasn’t new to the job. Why do you think he ignored the laws of interviewing a minor?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember this. It can’t be real.”

“Convenient.” He pulls out a chair, spins it around and straddles the seat, resting his arms across the back, and looks at me. “So, your argument is that this is a deep fake recording?”

“It must be. Because I didn’t say any of that.”

“What would you say if I told you I have a written statement from Detective Holson’s partner—the other detective on the recording—confirming that it’s real?”

I shake my head.

How can it be? I saw him.

I. Saw. Him!

He reaches out a hand, and hits play again. The recording is speeded up, showing my younger self being led out of the room. Time passes, and then the door opens again, and I walk back in. This time my dad is beside me.

Zain lets the rest of the recording play uninterrupted, and I watch as I completely change my original claim.

This part of the recording I remember. The shock, fear, sickness churning in my stomach as I relive what I walked in on.

I describe Zain standing over the bodies, knife in his hand. I talk about how I turned to flee, and he shouted my name. My voice breaks. I cry. My dad holds my hand.

And Detective Holson keeps asking about the knife. Over and over.

When the recording ends, silence fills the room.

I can’t stop shaking my head.

I saw him with the knife.

I saw him with the knife.

I saw him with the knife.

If I close my eyes, I can still see him.

It’s a lie. It’s wrong. It’s a deep fake, like he said. It must be.

So why am I shaking?

Why do I feel sick?

Why can’t I look at him?

“Cat got your tongue?” His voice is hard, cold.

He leans forward, and clicks around the screen.

“So you can’t claim I’m being unfair, I’m going to show you another video. You’ll enjoy this one even more.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

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