Chapter 42

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

ZAIN

I hit pause on the video. The laptop screen freezes on her face. Eyes wide, lips parted, face pale. It's there frozen in time. Her confirmation that I held the knife that butchered my friends.

My jaw clenches, and I grip the edge of the table so hard it hurts.

What happened during the unrecorded time?

Ashley was taken out to meet her father. But they didn't immediately return to the interview room. The timestamp proves that.

What happened outside of the interview room to make her change her story?

I glance toward the door, and take out one earbud.

I could ask her, but it's gone quiet upstairs, and going up there now will undermine my statement that I'll see her in the morning.

I look back at the screen. There's still another thirty minutes left to watch. But I don't think any of it matters. All it's going to confirm is that she allowed the detective to convince her to lie.

Her witness statement wasn't used in the trial. It was inadmissible due to her being a minor and having no adult representation in the room when they first questioned her. So they put her on the stand.

Who was going to look at a tearful thirteen year old girl who'd just lost her brother, and think she was lying about what she saw?

I close the laptop. I have no interest in watching the trainwreck that was my interrogation. I lived it. I've succeeded in wiping every second of that disaster from my mind.

Liar . You don't remember it because you were scared, and shocked, and devastated.

Tomorrow, I'll make Ashley watch her witness interview, and we'll see how she tries to explain it away.

I push away from the table, and stand.

I should try and get some sleep. From here, things are going to get … gnarly.

I make sure the house is locked up, then walk up the stairs. Pausing outside Jason's room, I listen. No sound reaches me. The light is still on inside the room. That doesn't mean anything. She could be awake or asleep. I doubt she wants to be in that room with the light off, though.

Her reaction to going into his room was a little more extreme than I'd been expecting. For half a second, I even considered unlocking the door.

Any thought of easing up on my plan evaporated once I watched her interview with the police.

I continue along the hallway to the bedroom I used to use when I still lived here, and open the door. The room beyond has barely changed since the last time I was in here. There's still a pile of books on the nightstand, with the one on top open, face down. Peter's instructions to the cleaning company were to make sure the house was habitable, but not to touch anything that didn't require it.

I know that after my arrest, the entire house was ripped apart as the police searched for evidence. I doubt my bedroom avoided it, but to look at it now. It looks clean, tidy, like it's just waiting for someone to come in and use it again.

The bedding is fresh, and the sheets are turned down. I ignore it. I won't be sleeping there. I came up here to take a quick shower, then I'll go back downstairs and stretch out on the couch … or the floor.

It's hard staying in the room long enough to strip out of my clothes. Memories of happier days bombard me from all sides. I swear I can hear Louisa laughing, and the deeper sound of Jason's voice.

I walk to the bathroom, and take a quick shower. Out of habit, I don't linger, and I'm clean and out within five minutes. There are clean clothes in the dresser, again supplied via my request to Peter. I pull on a soft pair of gray sweats and a plain black T-shirt, then retrace my steps, picking up the clothes I discarded. I toss them into the laundry basket near the door, then walk back downstairs.

I'm walking into the living room, when the sound of breaking glass shatters the silence. I stop, and turn, trying to figure out where it came from. I check the kitchen, the study, and then walk along the hallway to the front door.

The top glass panel has broken, and there's something on the floor just inside the entrance hall. I bend, and pick it up .

A brick, with a sheet of paper taped to it. I'm pretty sure I know what it is, but I peel it off and unfold it anyway.

We don't want you here.

Murderer.

There was a time when those words would have hit their mark, would have made me flinch, and automatically deny them. But that was a long time ago. Back when I wasn't hardened by years of living amongst the worst of humankind.

Now I just crumple it into a ball, and open the front door.

"You can do better than that," I say out loud as I walk over the drive to where the garbage bin is located, and toss it inside. "If you really think I'm capable of murder, then you should be very careful about your next move. I might come after you next."

I should keep it as evidence, take it to the police, and report it. If it happens again, I'll consider it. But for now, I want to keep the police as far away from what I'm doing as possible.

I keep one eye on the shadows coating the drive as I walk back to the door. "It's good to know some things haven't changed. A good brick through the window is always an effective way to get attention. But this is my house, and I will be here for as long as I wish to be. So, have fun with that."

I go back inside and close the door. I'm not sure I have anything to cover the glass with, so I drag one of the small tables Louisa loved to place around the house, and wedge it under the handle. If anyone tries to get in, I'll hear them. Tomorrow, I'll arrange to have the glass replaced.

I detour to the kitchen on my way to the living room to get a bottle of water from the refrigerator, then stretch out on the couch, and pick up the television remote. Flipping through the channels, I find something that works as background noise, then toss it down, and close my eyes.

Hopefully, I can sleep for at least a couple of hours.

I'm going to need to be focused, because tomorrow my plan for Ashley Trumont really begins.