Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

ZAIN

The security detail Peter hired whisks me through the hotel check-in with minimal fuss. I'm handed a keycard, informed that I won't be able to access the elevator without it, and given a list of all the amenities available by the man on the desk in a bored voice. He gives no sign that he recognizes me, which I appreciate, and once he's done, he points me toward the elevators. Two of the security guards come with me, taking up silent positions in the elevator and stopping anyone else from entering. I consider asking them to let people board, then change my mind. I don't want to be stuck in a small space with someone who saw the news reports. The third guy remains behind in the lobby.

When the doors slide open on my floor, security guard number one goes first. The other walks behind me, then makes me wait outside the door, while his partner checks inside. I find it a little weird. As though I'm some kind of celebrity who needs their room checked for groupies or crazy fans. But I know it's not because they're checking for fans, they're checking for people who still believe I did the crime and want me dead.

It takes him five minutes to come out and confirm it's empty .

"We'll be outside if you need anything," one says when I walk past him, and step inside.

"There's really no need."

"Part of the job, sir." Neither of them wait to hear what I have to say in return, stepping out into the hallway and pulling the door closed behind them.

I sigh, and turn to face the room. The suite , I correct myself, when I spot the doors on the opposite side of the room.

I dump my small bag of belongings on the closest flat surface and move deeper into the main room. The hotel suite Peter arranged for me is luxurious. Granted, anything with a separate bathroom would seem that way after living in an eight-by-ten cell for fourteen years.

The silence is unnerving. Even at night, after the lights had gone out, there was always noise in the prison block. Snores, groans, and grunts. The occasional scream to break up the monotony. I added my fair share of it all, especially in the first few months of my incarceration.

Looking the way I did, and being placed in a prison full of murderers, rapists, and other hardcore criminals meant I had to learn fast how to look after myself. That, become someone's bitch, or die. And I had no intention of doing either of the latter.

Pushing open the bedroom door, I look inside. The bed is large enough to sleep at least three. An observation that twists my lips.

Memories of nights where the three of us played together, whispered to each other, and slept in a tangle of limbs assail me, and I force them away. While they are something I'll forever hold close, it's not a situation I ever want to get into again.

I drag my eyes away from the bed, and make my way across the room to the door set in the opposite wall. Beyond it is a bathroom containing a tub, a walk-in shower, a toilet, twin-sinks and the usual cabinets. The shower calls to me, and I let the temptation of decent water pressure, hot water, and not having to be on guard, or on a time limit seduce me.

It takes seconds to strip out of my clothes, and less than a minute later, I'm standing beneath the spray, my face upturned, eyes closed, as the water cascades over me. And for a few minutes my mind lets go of all the thoughts crashing through it, and I just stand there and breathe.

The sting of the hot water as it hits me is soothing, and my heartbeat slows to a steady, relaxed thud in my ears. The tension that's been holding my body tight unwinds, my fingers uncurl from my palms, and I release a long, heavy breath.

It's been almost five hours since I was freed, and I'm still half-expecting someone to tell me it was a mistake and drag me back. But standing here, under the hot spray, the truth finally sinks in.

I. Am. A. Free. Man.

In theory, if I want to, I can dress, walk out of the hotel room, and go down to the restaurant for a meal. I can go to a bar. Hell, I could go and watch a movie.

I won't. But I could.

Peter has advised me to keep out of sight for a while, long enough to let the media frenzy die down. While my retrial wasn't high profile enough to reach the entire country, it has been covered by the state, and lots of local news stations have run stories.

He wants me to lay low at the hotel for a couple of days, and then I can go home.

Home .

Back to where I grew up, where my family lives. Where I have a home. Where Jason and Louisa are laid to rest.

Peter thinks it's a bad idea, a risky idea. He's advised me, more than once, to sell up the properties I own back in Whitstone.

But I can't. I won't .

I have to go back. I need to face the town, and the people who stood against me. I need to show them that I am innocent.

I need them to know that they were wrong.

My cell phone's ringtone shatters the silence, and my head snaps around to search out where I'd tossed it on top of my clothes. Only one person has the number, and by the time I've stepped out of the shower and found a towel, he's cut it off and rang back twice more.

I pick up on the third call.

"Where were you?" My lawyer's voice is sharp.

"I took a shower."

"Oh." His intake of breath is clear down the line. "I thought?—"

"That I'd ignored your warnings and taken off. Maybe gone for a stroll around the block?"

"Yeah, that."

"I haven't. And I don't think the prison guards you've got outside my door would let me anyway."

"They're not prison guards, Zain. "

"Will they try to stop me from leaving the hotel?"

"Yes."

"Then they're guards." I wedge the cell between my shoulder and ear, and finish drying my body.

"It's only for a couple of days. To stop anyone getting to you if the press finds out where you are. They're protecting you, not guarding you."

"It doesn't matter. It's not like I have anywhere to go or anyone to see. Did you organize any clothes for me, or did you err on the side of caution and wait until we got the verdict?"

"Unlike you, I was confident that you'd become a free man today. I had my assistant buy you enough things for a week."

"I'm not staying here for a week."

He continues talking like I didn't interrupt him. "Shirts, pants, underwear, socks, three pairs of shoes, two pairs of sneakers, a couple of jackets and a long coat. There's also the cell phone, which you already have obviously, a tablet, and a laptop. There should be an envelope on the table in the main room with all the logins to bank accounts, and emails. I've installed the banking app on your cell, and there are debit and credit cards in the wallet. There should also be a couple hundred dollars in cash. Not that you're leaving the room."

"How long do I need to stay here?"

"I'll be there in an hour. We'll go through some final paperwork, and then we can talk about next steps." He's avoiding my question, that much is obvious.

"Next steps? "

"Zain, fourteen years is a long time. No matter how much you're trying to pretend otherwise, the next couple of weeks are going to be an adjustment. I still think going back to Whitstone so soon is a mistake."

"We've talked about this. I want to go home."

"I know, and I understand. But small town mindsets are tough to break. Are you sure it's going to be worth the heartache? Why not just start afresh somewhere else?"

"Because Whitstone is my home . It's been my family's home for generations."

"And it was the shoddy work of the police force there that caused you to be labeled a murderer, and lose your freedom."

"Another reason for me to go back."

"To antagonize them?"

"Something like that."

I walk back into the bedroom and throw open the closet doors. Crisp white shirts and expensive black pants are on hangers. I turn to the dresser. The top drawer reveals underwear and socks.

"Did you pick up anything more casual for me to wear?"

"There should be jeans, sweatpants, and T-shirts. I wasn't sure what you'd prefer, so we covered all options."

Taking what I need, I throw it all onto the bed, hit the speaker icon on the phone's screen, then toss the cell down as well, so I can dress and talk.

"What about the girl?"

Peter sighs. "Zain?—"

"We've been through this. Did you find her or not? "

"I found something . As your attorney, I want to go on record as telling you that I think this is a bad idea."

"Noted. What did you find?"

"As you know, when I sent someone to talk to Esme Trumont, she wasn't very forthcoming on where her daughter was. We know she left town as soon as she turned eighteen, but then she just … disappeared. Obviously, she changed her name, but not formally. We didn't need her, and the prosecution would have dragged her out to testify again if we tried to find her. Her not being there worked more in our favor."

"And now?"

"She wasn't hard to find. She lives in New York, and uses the name Truman instead of Trumont."

"So, she's been lying for years about who she is? I guess once a liar, always a liar."

"She works at Sacred Saints Hospital."

"She's a doctor?"

"No. She works in administration."

"Do you have her home address?"

"I do."

Picking the cell phone up off the bed, I go back into the main room and check out the drinks in the refrigerator. Taking out a bottle of water, I sit on the couch.

"Bring it with you."

There is a short silence. "Zain, going to her house?—"

"I'm not stupid, Peter. I have no intention of going to her house."

I just want to know where she lives, what she's doing, who her friends are, and what she looks like.