Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

ZAIN

It takes my attorney repeating the verdict three times before it finally sinks in that I've been freed. The judge believes that the new evidence presented to them is enough to overturn the original ruling, and made the unusual decision to call us to her chambers early on a Saturday morning, because I'd waited long enough.

I'm not going back to the prison, or the small eight by ten cell I've called home for the past fourteen years. I'm walking out of the doors a free man. I can go home, to my family, and … then what?

Panic threatens to overtake me, and I use the skills I've learned inside to squash it down before it breaks free.

Breathe slowly and deeply. Remind yourself the attack will pass. Name three objects.

I look around.

The pen on the table in front of me. A folder with the case notes. My attorney's cell phone.

Now three sounds .

I close my eyes.

The scrape of chairs. The judge's voice as she talks to the stenographer. The sound of my heart .

Last one. Move three body parts.

I tap my foot, flex my fingers, and roll my shoulders.

That's it. You got it. All you have to take is one step at a time, Zain. Let's get out of the courthouse. Then we'll think about what happens next.

I'm still in a daze when I'm taken to a small room and told to make myself comfortable while all the relevant paperwork is filled out. It's a far cry from the room I sat in for hours while they grilled me over the murder of my best friend. I guess I should be thankful that this time I'm not handcuffed or covered in blood.

Dark wooden bookcases line one wall, a conference table the same color spans the center of the room, and six plush leather chairs are placed around it. The carpet beneath my shoes is thick. In fact, the entire room gives off an opulent feel that makes me uncomfortable. I've grown used to metal tables, tiled floors, and benches welded in place so prisoners couldn't use them as weapons.

A woman, dressed in a black skirt and cream blouse comes in silently, places a coffee cup in front of me and leaves, without making eye contact. That suits me fine. I'm not sure I can make small talk, not with the way thoughts are spinning around in my head.

How can I want to get out of here but never want to leave at the same time? Not that I can go anywhere yet.

I eye the coffee in front of me, then lift it and take a sip. It's luke-warm, and the bitter flavor twists my lips. I used to drink coffee all the time. Before prison. But now, it doesn't taste right, so I set it back down.

The memory of being given a drink during my interrogation surfaces. As a naive twenty-year-old, I'd taken the drink eagerly after hours of talking, pleading, begging them to believe my innocence. I hadn't thought about how drinking it was giving them easy access to my DNA. I know better now. I'm a lot more cautious.

I shake my head. What does it matter? It's not like they're about to run it to match it against what they found at the crime scene again.

Been there. Done that.

Instead, I force myself to look around the room, and study the names of the books on the shelves in an attempt to continue keeping my anxiety at bay. They're all law based. Some look old. Some shiny and new, their spines uncracked.

Are they just for show or does anyone actually take them down and read them?

My hand smooths over the tabletop, and once again, I'm taken back to that day so many years ago. There had been a metal loop on the table I'd been sitting at, and my handcuffs were hooked through it so I couldn't stand up.

They weren't taking any risks. I'd just murdered two people, after all.

I shake my head again, going through the steps to combat a panic attack once more.

Stop it. Stop thinking about it .

But how can I? What else is there to think about? I've just spent years locked in an eight by ten cell because of it. Fourteen years that have shaped my life, my thinking, the very bones of who I am.

Who am I? Do I even know anymore?

It's a valid question, and one I think it's going to take time to work out the answer to. I'm certainly not the kid who walked into prison at twenty years old, that's for sure. Not anymore. That kid had been confident the system wouldn't let him down, that he'd be found innocent, that he wouldn't go to prison. My lawyer back then had suggested I take a plea deal. I'd refused. I wasn't guilty. They wouldn't convict me. I didn't do anything wrong.

But they did.

And the man sitting in this room now is a completely different monster to the one they thought I'd been.

In my head, that fateful day plays again. I watch as the younger version of me protests his innocence. Explains everything that happened in an earnest tone, and then cries when the jury gives their guilty verdict.

A few months inside, and I lost the ability to cry. No tears, and no feelings. Don't show anything. That was the rule I learned.

And I learned it hard, fast, and well.

No, I'm no longer the same boy who was imprisoned for a double homicide. Not even close.

The door opens, disturbing my thoughts, and I look up just as my attorney walks in.

"There are news vans surrounding the main entrance. I've just given them a statement, but they're not leaving until you talk to them. I've asked if we can slip out through the fire escape at the back, and been given permission?—"

"I'll talk to them." My voice comes out cool and clipped—a far cry from the hoarse, terrified cries of the boy I once was.

"Zain— "

"Do you honestly believe no one is going to be lurking back there? If they haven't considered the fact that I might sneak out that way, they should all be fired."

He sighs, but doesn't argue. He's learned fast that once I've made a decision, he's unlikely to sway me from it.

"Okay. Well, can we talk about what statement you're going to make before we go out there?"

"Don't you trust me, Peter?"

He laughs quietly at that. "I trust you. But I also know that the world has changed a lot since you were last out in it."

"I'm offended." I'm not. Not at all. And he knows it.

Rising to my feet, I take the jacket from the back of the chair and slip it on. The silk sleeves of the shirt covering my arms feels strange. I'm so used to wearing rough prison clothes that the soft material doesn't feel right. Turning toward the mirror hanging on the wall, I adjust my tie, run my fingers through my hair, then face Peter.

"I'm ready."

"What are you going to tell them?"

"That depends on what they ask me."

"Zain," There's a worried note to his voice, "you need to be careful."

"What are they going to do? Convict me again?" I arch an eyebrow. "If I wasn't careful, I'd have died years ago." I move past him toward the door. "Stop worrying."

His sigh is heavy, but he follows me out. People fall silent as we pass, their gazes following us along the hallway. My steps slow when we turn the corner, and the entrance of the courthouse comes into view. Faint voices can be heard filtering through the closed doors.

I lift my head, straighten my shoulders, and take a quiet breath, then nod to Peter.

"I'm ready. Open the door."

He takes the lead, pushes the door open, and steps outside. Shouts rise immediately, calling my name. Reaching into my breast pocket, I take out the sunglasses Peter supplied and slide them onto my face, then I walk outside and into the sunlight.

" Zain! Zain!" My name is called from all sides. Lights flash, microphones are shoved into my face, and then the three security guards Peter hired are there, forcing the reporters back a step.

I hold up a hand until everyone falls silent, then point to the reporter directly in front of me. "Go ahead."

She smiles. "Thank you. Can you tell us how you're feeling right now?"

"Euphoric." I don't sound euphoric. "To finally be able to stand out here as a free man is everything I didn't dare dream about."

"Did you expect the judge to come back so quickly with their decision?"

"No. In fact, I thought they were going to throw the case out and send me back to my cell. I think it's going to take a little while for me to really believe that I'm not going back." I point at another reporter.

"Do you know whether Jason Trumont's family is aware that you were appealing? It's been a long time. I'm sure everyone thought you had come to terms with the verdict, and were just going to live out your time inside. How do you think they're going to react to your release?"

"Peter did contact Jason's mom. Bryan Trumont, his dad, passed away a few years ago. Peter did speak to his widow, but wasn't able to obtain contact details for Jason's sister. I assume she was informed of the appeal by her mom. I can only hope that the real perpetrator will be found and brought to justice."

"In light of your exoneration, are they reopening the case?"

"You'll have to ask the police about that."

"Jason Trumont was your best friend, and he had an affair with your girlfriend. You were found covered in his blood, standing over both their bodies. It's not really a surprise that people think you did it. You know that people are still going to believe that, don't you?" The question comes from near the back of the clustered reporters.

"No more questions." Peter steps in front of me before I can reply. He waves a hand at the security team. "Get him out of here. Zain, take this." He hands me a cell phone. "I've added my number already, and left a message with details about where you're staying. Go and get settled, and I'll call you in a couple of hours. I have a few more things to do here before I can finish for the day."

I nod, and let myself be guided to the black SUV waiting at the bottom of the steps, ignoring the shouts and questions from the reporters as we walk.

Once I'm sealed inside the cool interior, I tip my head back against the seat and close my eyes.

That's step one done. Now for step two.