Chapter 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

ASHLEY

I push the mushrooms around my plate, but don't eat any of it. It looks delicious. It smells delicious. But I just can't bring myself to put it in my mouth. Zain doesn't seem to have the same problem, tucking into his appetizer with relish.

When his plate is empty, and mine isn't, he raises an eyebrow.

"I can't eat on demand."

"You wouldn't last a week in prison, then. You eat when food is served, or you go hungry until the next meal."

"Well, lucky for me I'm not in prison." My response is tart, and I really should have thought it through before saying it.

"You will be by the end of the week. So I suggest making the most of being able to choose your meals, and when you can eat them while you can."

His words do nothing to help my appetite.

I shouldn't have signed the contract. I should have taken it to a lawyer. Common sense tells me that at least half the things on it can't be legal. But I hadn't believed him when he said my mom had an affair with my dad, and that was true. And he didn't lie about my parents talking about divorce the day Jason died.

Truth is, I'm too scared to show someone what I've signed. In case it is all legal.

And now I have signed it, so there's no backing out … unless I run and leave my mom to deal with the consequences. And that's something I'm not prepared to do.

"Just tell me why you're doing this. It can't be simply because I had to testify to what I saw. There must be more to it than that."

He sets his knife and fork neatly on top of his empty plate, and takes a sip of water.

"You didn't have to testify, though, did you? That's the point. You could have said no. You could have admitted that you didn't see what you claim you saw."

"But I did see you, and it would have been wrong for me to stay silent."

He leans back on his chair, and folds his arms. "You understand you can't back out, don't you? It doesn't matter what I tell you, or what you know at this point. If you renege on any part of the contract you've just signed, I'll not only ensure your mother never sees the outside of a prison cell again, I'll sue you for malicious intent to defame my character, and take every cent you have."

"You can't do that."

One eyebrow lifts. "If you're confident of that, by all means take a chance."

"If it was possible to sue witnesses, then it would have been done before now."

"It's not." He takes another sip of water. "Testimonies in court come under qualified privilege, but if I can prove you had malicious intent or didn't really believe what you were saying, that privilege is removed, and I can go ahead and take you to court for it. Perjury is illegal, after all."

"But I do believe it." The second the words leave my lips, I regret it. I've just made it clear that I still think he's responsible for the murder of my brother.

His expression doesn't change at my words. "And yet, here you are, surrounded by witnesses, having an intimate dinner with me. Not really the actions of someone who thinks I brutally murdered her brother, are they?"

I go cold. Is this the real reason he wanted to be out in public with me? I could have signed the contract anywhere, somewhere private, but here we are, surrounded by other diners.

I think back to the way he'd kept his hand against my back as we moved through the restaurant. I didn't want to make a scene, so I said nothing. Yet to anyone watching, it would have looked friendly, caring, intimate .

"I'll admit, my initial plan was a little more straightforward," he continues. "As I knew you didn't live here anymore, I was going to give the police my theories on your mother. I could have convinced them that you lied on the stand to protect her. But then I came across you in the cemetery, and … well, it was too good an opportunity to ignore, wasn't it?"

"Too good an opportunity?" I whisper.

"I spent fourteen years being told what to do every hour of every day. Ruining your name is easy, but you'd still have control over your life. This way you get to experience what your words, your decision , did to me on a more physical level." He leans across the table, stabs at a mushroom on my plate with a fork, then lifts it to tap against my lips. "Open your mouth."

I shake my head.

With his free hand, he takes out his cell and places it on the table. His fingers move over the screen, navigating to his contacts list. There are only four numbers listed. I don't get a chance to read them before he taps the bottom one. Even though it's not on speaker, I can hear the sound of ringing. A male voice answers.

"Sheriff McFadden."

"Wait!" I slap the screen, cutting the call.

How does he have the direct number for the sheriff? Why does he have it?

The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach intensifies. If he can speak directly to the sheriff, then that explains how confident he is in getting my mom arrested so fast.

He taps my lip again. "Eat the food."

He feeds me half of the appetizer before putting down the fork. People keep glancing our way, and I'm sure they're whispering to each other about what they're seeing. My cheeks are burning, and it's a relief when he finally signals for the server to take away the plates.

She returns a short while later with our mains. I eat in silence, praying with every mouthful that I don't vomit it back up all over the table. Zain either doesn't notice or doesn't care, because once we're done, he leans back on his seat, and looks at me.

"Would you like dessert? "

"Do you want me to have dessert?" There's a slight bite to my tone, which makes one corner of his mouth lift.

"See? You can do as you're told."

"I hate you."

"Not yet, you don't."