Page 19 of Ruthless Regret

Rook’s words play on a loop in my mind, like an echo which grows louder with every second. The question seems innocent on the surface, but it’s not. It’s pulling everything apart at the seams. Tilting everything I’ve believed since I was arrested for murder. For years, I convinced myself that Ashley accused me out of hatred, maybe jealousy because I spent more time with her brother than she did.

I blamed her for what happened to me after his murder.

But now, I’m standing here, and feel like I’ve missed the most obvious truth of all.

What if I’ve been so blinded by my anger that I missed something crucial? Something more than her remembering what she saw wrong.

I pace the length of the room, phone still clutched in my hand, while my mind works overtime. I’ve always believed that Ashley set me up, that she knew more than she admitted to, and her initial police interview seemed to cement that. But her reaction afterward, combined with my mom’s explanation about false memories raised questions.

Okay, sure, for a while I ignored them, too wrapped up in my anger. But now? Now I know she wasn’t faking it. She’s as much a victim as I am. I can’t ignore the truth.

Somethinghappened that messed with her memories. And what if, by putting her in the spotlight today, I’ve brought more attention onto her? Is there someone out there who knows the full truth of what happened that night? Was today’s attack an attempt to stop her from sharing it?

I sink down onto the couch. The files Rook mentioned—the full unedited investigation into the murders, the police reports, the interviews—they’re sitting in my email, waiting for me. I need to open them. Maybe I’ll see something in there. Something that makes sense of it all.

I’ve always been so sure of my plan—Get out of prison. Find the girl who put me there. Make her pay.—but everything has changed. And I don’t like the loss of control.

Maybe Rook is right, and this isn’t just about me any longer.

I stand up, and walk into the kitchen, where my laptop sits on the table, and turn it on. Pulling up my email, I click on the one from Knight. The screen fills with folders, all titled so it’s clear what’s inside—interviews with neighbors, police reports, interview transcripts, crime scene photographs. It’s all there. Every grim fucking detail of the night Jason and Louisa were killed.

I open the neighbor interviews folder first, and go through each file.

“Such a nice couple.”

“I didn’t hear a thing.”

“I knew there was something off about the other boy.”

“Jason didn’t have any enemies.”

“Louisa was very nice.”

“I didn’t see anything strange that night.”

After I got over the shock of being convicted, that was something I thought about a lot.

No one saw anything. No one heard anything.

It’s like the killer knew exactly when to strike.

There must be something more. Something I’ve missed.

I scan through them again, swearing under my breath whennothingjumps out.

Pausing to grab a bottle of water, I settle back down and open the reports from the detectives who handled the case. The ones who led the investigation, such as it was, that put me behind bars.

The words of Detective Ramsey come back to me.

“There was no forced entry, no sign of a struggle. He was the only other person with access to the house. This was someone they knew. Someone close to them. Ryder is the only one who could have done it. This was a very personal attack.”

Jason was my best friend. I would have fuckingdiedfor himandLouisa. The investigating officers knew that. They used the rumors of how we’d been more than just friends to make it look like I killed them out of jealousy because I was no longer part of their relationship.

I close the interviews, and the mouse cursor hovers over the folder containing the photographs. Some of the images I’ve seen before. The detectives forced me to look at them, more than once, during my interrogation as part of their attempt to get me to admit my guilt.

The memory of that night is seared into my mind, no matter how much I try to bury it.

I was the one covered in blood. The one standing over my best friend’s dead body. I can still see Ashley’s face when she walked in and saw me. The disbelief and horror as she took in the scene is etched into my brain.

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