Chapter 73
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
ZAIN
I don’t sleep. Not that it’s anything new. Since the first night of my incarceration, I’ve rarely been able to sleep for more than a couple of hours, but this is different.
I lie on the cold floor, stare up at the ceiling, and count the minutes until I can legitimately get back up without disturbing Ashley.
What the fuck were you thinking?
I wasn’t. That’s just it. Not about the important things, anyway. The second it became clear that she’d watched me jerk off, all I could think about was seeing her come.
Putting my hands on her was a mistake. Feeling how silky her skin was, how warm, how soft. It fired up a hunger I haven’t felt in a long time.
And once I had my mouth on her, my fingers inside her, it became a battle not to take more. To drive my dick into her body, and take everything.
Her lips tasted like wine, and her pussy tasted like heaven.
Her moans and cries echo around my head. The way she writhed against my mouth, the way her fingernails dug into my scalp … I haven’t felt that alive in a long time.
And it’s a battle not to leave the bathroom and join her in bed. But I don’t. I stay where I am—on the floor, in the bathroom, and watch the time slowly pass on the screen of my cell phone.
As soon as it turns four a.m., I stand up. Everyone should be asleep … she should be asleep. I pull on the sweats and T-shirt I’d brought in the night before, and ease the door open carefully.
The room beyond is in darkness, and I creep through without even looking at the bed. I don’t want to see her lying there. I’m not sure I’ll be able to resist the temptation, if I see her.
My steps are silent as I walk across the hall and down the stairs, and I’m in the kitchen a couple of minutes later. Making sure the door is closed, I set up the coffee machine and turn it on.
I’ll have a drink, then go for a run. It’s going to be another long day today, and I need my wits about me. When the coffee machine makes a noise which indicates it’s ready, I pour a drink and sit at the table.
It’s Wednesday. Peter should be arriving at around ten to, in his words, prep me for the interview. The channel’s presenter will be here at eleven. I’m curious to see if Marissa or Esme show up.
The interview is going out live. I’ve caught the advertisements for it here and there over the past couple of days.
Now it’s here, I’m second-guessing myself. What I have to say is going to set off a new chain of events, and I can’t warn anyone in advance because I need their reactions to be genuine.
Sipping my coffee, I lean back on the chair and stretch my legs out in front of me. This is the first real moment I’ve just sat quietly, without any noise.
It’s … nice. And I’m looking forward to getting more time like this in the future.
This will all be worth it.
I have to keep telling myself that.
Once I’ve finished my coffee, I rinse the mug, and set it on the drainer, then go out into the reception hall. I left a pair of sneakers near the door, so I shove my feet into them, unlock the front door and step outside.
The early morning air is already warm, and I do a couple of stretches before jogging down the drive.
There’s no one around. No people, no cars. It’s too early for early morning traffic. Hours before anyone will be thinking about going to work. There isn’t even anyone walking their dogs.
It reminds me of mornings in prison. The lack of people, the silence, reminds me of that time before everyone woke up and started shouting at each other through the doors of their cells. It’s strangely comforting.
I list how the mornings used to go in my head as I jog along the sidewalk.
Get up, strip search, out into the yard for an hour, then it was back inside with minimal interaction, no mingling with other prisoners, shower, and back in my cell.
We had a couple of hours throughout the day where we could have leisure time and mix with other people. But the prison block I was in housed some very dangerous people, and the wardens didn’t like us to spend too much time together.
My run takes me toward the outskirts of town, and along the edge of the forest that wraps around one side. When I reach the sign welcoming people to Whitstone, I turn and retrace my steps back toward town.
A car passes me, stops, and reverses then keeps pace beside me. I ignore them. If they want something, they’ll say so. If they’re trying to intimidate me, they’re in for a surprise. Eventually the window lowers.
“You’re Zain Ryder.”
I keep jogging.
“What was it like? In prison, I mean?”
I glance at the man … boy, really. He looks around the same age I was when I was imprisoned. Young, fresh faced, and unaware of how shit life can be.
“It’s not something I’d recommend.”
“Did you do it?”
“No.”
“Then why did they arrest you?”
I stop. “Why do you want to know?”
“I’m just interested. I love watching true crime shows. There are a few about what happened to you. They all think it was fucked up.”
I laugh at that. The kid has no idea just how fucked up it was.
“What do you mean there are a few?” There are documentaries about the murders ?
“You don’t know? They’re on YouTube. Search for your name, and trial. They’ll pop up. Most of them think you’re innocent.”
Interesting .
He leans out of the window. “It makes no sense, man. There are inconsistencies in the reports.”
“How do you know that?”
“Some of the investigators got hold of them. Like the knife. They never did find it after the trial.”
I flashback to walking into the room that night. The knife was on the floor.
Was it shown as evidence in the trial? I don’t remember. So much of it is a blur.
“—Trumont left town as soon as she graduated high school. She couldn’t get out of here fast enough. Why wasn’t she a suspect?”
Ashley?
I don’t reply to his question.
“I’ll be watching your interview later. But I just wanted you to know that not everyone in town thinks you did it.”
“I appreciate that. Thanks.”
“Do you need a ride back to town?”
I shake my head. “Thanks, but no.”
“Alright, man.” The window goes up, and he drives off.
I wait until the car is out of sight, then move into a slow run, while I process the entire conversation.
There are documentaries by amateur investigators who have looked at the case. No one told me about those. I file it away as something to raise with Peter when he gets to the house. Maybe I should check them out before the interview starts. See if any of them have stumbled across anything I don’t already know. It’s unlikely, but if Ashley could point out how Detective Holson knew about Louisa’s pregnancy, then there might be something else I’ve missed.
It’s almost five-thirty by the time I get back. I go straight upstairs, and creep into the bedroom. Ashley is a huddled mass in the center of the bed, and I decide not to wake her up just yet.
I still haven’t really thought about what happened between us last night, and more to the point, why it happened.
All I know is that it doesn’t matter how much I enjoyed it, or how good she tasted, I can’t afford to be distracted from the plan.