Page 47 of Ruthless Regret

“It’s what kept me alive for so long.”

He lets out a small laugh. “Fine. Tomorrow then. I’ll pick you up, and we’ll head to New York. Just … don’t do anything stupid in the meantime.”

“I won’t.” I hang up, drop the phone onto the passenger seat and let the silence in the car wrap around me.

What the hell am I doing? I wanted revenge. Now all I want is the truth.

I turn the key in the ignition, the engine rumbling to life, and pull out of the parking lot. The closer I get to my parents’ house, the more my body tenses. With the way everything happened, I’ve never had a chance to talk to my parents about it. I was arrested and kept locked up. I was refused bail, because the prosecution convinced the judge I was a flight risk. I didn’t want them at the trial, and I refused to allow them to visit me in prison.

It wasn’t just that though. I’d been an emotional wreck. First, confused, scared, devastated, and then afterward, when I was alone in my cell, all those emotions turned cold. I became angry, violent, and dangerous.

I didn't want them to see me like that. I didn’t want them to see what I’d become. I know they’re confused by my behavior since my release. I know they’re finding it hard to reconcile their memory of a young son with the man I am.

But I have to set all that to one side. I need answers. I need my mom’s help. I need her to tell me what she remembers about the days following Jason and Louisa’s deaths.

Because I wasn’t here. I was locked away being interrogated.

I don’t know what I’m hoping to hear, but if there’s a chance she knows something,anything, that might help piece together what happened, then I have to ask.

When I arrive at the house, I park the car, get out, and make my way up the steps. The door opens before I can knock, and my mom’s standing there.

“What are you doing here, honey? I thought you were with your dad.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“About what?” She steps aside to let me in.

“About Jason. About that night.”

She frowns, then waves me through to the living room. “Why don’t you go and sit down? I’ll make us coffee, and then we can talk.”

I walk into the living room and take a seat in one of the armchairs. My fingers drum restlessly on my thigh.

She comes back into the living room a few minutes later, carrying two mugs. Handing one to me, she sits on the couch.

“What do you want to know?” Her voice is soft, and there’s an awareness there that she knows whatever I’m about to ask is going to be difficult.

I take a deep breath. This conversation isn’t going to be easy. “Do you remember the days right after Jason and Louisa’s deaths?”

“Of course I do.”

I glance down at the coffee mug gripped in my hands, then back up at her. “What was it like? Here, I mean. With the police, the investigation. Everything.”

“It was chaotic. The police were everywhere. Every time one of us left the house, reporters were shouting questions at us. It felt like we were living in a nightmare.”

“Do you remember talking to anyone? The detectives? Holson and Ramsey?”

Her features darken slightly at their names. “Ramsey was in charge. Holson came by a few times, but Ramsey did most of the questioning. He was determined. He wanted answers, and he wasn’t too concerned about how he got them.”

“Did you ever feel like he was pressuring you to make statements that weren’t true?”

“No. But he seemed impatient. Like he wanted the case wrapped up quickly. He kept asking if you ever argued with Jason, if there was any tension between the two of you. I told him the truth. That you loved him like he was your brother.”

“What about Holson?”

“I got the sense that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with Ramsey’s methods. There was something off about the way they were pushing the investigation. But what could I do? They were the police, and being your mother, they had no interest in listening to me say you were innocent.”

“Do you remember anything else? Anything strange? Did anyone visit, or did anything go missing?”

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