Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

ZAIN

The car pulls up outside my parents' house, but I don't get out straight away. Instead, I sit there, while the engine idles, and take in a couple of deep breaths. My parents will be inside, and if I know them, so will other members of my family.

I haven't seen any of them since the day I was led away in cuffs.

I wouldn't let them visit me in prison. I didn't want to see my mom in that place. But she wrote me letters, and I spoke to her on the phone once a month. When we received confirmation that the judge was willing to listen to the appeal, I told Peter not to tell them.

I didn't want them to get their hopes up in case things went wrong. But also if things did go the way I desperately hoped, I didn't want my parents to have to deal with the reporter frenzy afterward, while trying to remain calm. I left it to Peter to inform them of my release, and that I'd be coming home.

I needed a day to get my bearings, to work through everything in my head, and having them or any other family members around me the second I gained my freedom would have made that impossible.

My heart is doing somersaults in my chest. The front door leading into the house is closed, but that could change at any second. My gaze moves to the windows, and I'm certain I see a flicker of movement as someone looks out.

"Do you want to go somewhere else?" The driver's voice cuts through the silence, and his words are the push I need to get moving.

"No." I throw open the car door. "Can you pop the trunk for me?"

"Sure thing."

I climb out and move to the back to retrieve my suitcase, then walk to where the driver is waiting, his window down. "Thank you." I take a hundred dollar bill out of my wallet and hand it to him. "I appreciate your patience. It can't have been easy."

"You've been one of the easiest clients I've ever had." He takes the money with a smile, and hands me a business card. "Call if you ever need another driver."

I nod, pocket the card and walk slowly toward the steps leading up to the house. The second my foot touches the first one, the door flies open and I'm almost knocked off my feet when a small hurricane hits me.

My arms automatically wind around the body clinging to me, and I lower my head. When the familiar scent of her perfume hits me, a choked groan escapes my lips.

"Mom."

"They told me I was stupid to believe this day would come." Her voice is fierce. "But I knew. I knew you'd come home. That you'd prove they were wrong." The arms around my waist tighten. "I just wish you'd let me be there for you. "

I bury my face into the hair on top of her head, and close my eyes.

"Mom."

That's all I can say. Anything more, and I might just break down. And I can't do that. I can't let those walls down. Not yet. I have too much to do, and I need that barrier to stay strong.

I reach behind me to untangle her arms, and take a step back. She sniffs, but doesn't stop me, and as soon as we're apart, she reaches up to cup my face between her palms.

"Look at you." Her voice shakes. "Are you even real?"

I cover her hands with mine. "I'm real. I'm here."

Her lips curve up, trembling as she smiles through her tears. "Come into the house. Your dad said we should let you come inside in your own time, but when I saw you …" She shakes her head, blinking rapidly to stem the tears falling down her cheeks. "I couldn't wait any longer."

I curl my fingers around hers and tug them away from my cheeks so I can kiss them. "I missed you too, Mom."

Linking my fingers with hers, I grab the suitcase with my free hand and we walk up the steps and into the house.

"Who else is here?"

"Dad, Sondra, and …"

We stop in the entrance hall.

"Tell me."

"Marissa."

Marissa Trumont—Jason's mom, and a woman who took the stand at my trial to deny the charges laid against me. Her statement to the court had been impassioned, and my lawyer at the time genuinely thought that having the mother of one of the murder victims talk about the suspect so highly would sway the jury.

It hadn't. Nothing had. I was tried and found guilty in the court of public opinion before it even got to court. Not that I knew that at the time.

It was only when Peter Longeaton contacted me, wanting to raise an appeal for a retrial that it came to light that things had happened during the trial that should never have been allowed. He was confident he could get my conviction overturned based on the things he'd discovered. I hadn't dared hope, but gave him my agreement to work the case.

"Where is she?"

"In the lounge with everyone else."

I stiffen my spine, straighten my shoulders, and take in a deep breath. The next couple of hours are going to be hell. I've been so used to my own company or that of my cellmate twenty hours a day for the past fourteen years. Now I have to remember how to socialize. How to interact. How to smile .

"Let's go through, then. Can I leave my case here?"

"I'll get Lucy to take it up to your room. You are staying here, aren't you? Or are you moving straight into your house? I don't like the thought of you being alone so soon after coming home."

"I'll stay here for a couple of days, if you'll have me."

After seeing Ashley Trumont at the cemetery, I need to re-evaluate what I want to do.

Get out of prison—done .

Find the girl who put me there—done.

Make her pay—I will put that into action soon.

I have a new idea for that, but it's going to take some work. I need to call Peter. There's something I want him to do before he gets here.