“Don’t say that name again.”
“Who is Phoebe Hastings!”
“My wife!” Jameson was back in her face again.
The truth dawned on her. “That’s why she used that name isn’t it? You forced her to go by your dead wife’s name?”
“Willow loved being Phoebe. She hated this place, she enjoyed the escape. It was a reprieve for her.”
Lilia’s heart pounded in her chest. Her mind raced as she scrambled for something—anything—to save her.
“You’re disgusting,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
Jamesontsked, shaking his head as though he were disappointed with her. “I wish you wouldn’t say such things. I’m not the monster you’ve made me out to be. I loved her, Lilia. She just . . . didn’t listen.”
The truth crashed over her like a wave. “Your girlfriend—the one from the fundraiser . . . Phoebe. Where is she?”
His gaze fell to the floor as he picked at a loose thread on the edge of the bed. “Dead,” he said finally, so coldly that it sent a chill down Lilia’s spine. He said it like it meant nothing.
Lilia bit back a sob, her lips quivering as she whispered, “Please . . . let me go.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes as he took a step closer. “I can’t do that.”
Lilia backed away, but there was nowhere to go. Her body trembled uncontrollably. “Please,” she begged, her voice breaking.
Jameson tilted his head, his gaze drifting over her face. “You’re so pretty.”
The bile in her throat rose as another realization hit her. “You killed McCall.”
Jameson’s expression didn’t change. “He knew too much.”
“He found out about you and Willow, didn’t he?”
“He was too nosey for his own good,” Jameson replied casually, as though talking about a minor inconvenience.
Lilia’s knees were shaking now, barely able to hold her up. “How did you kill her?” she asked, barely able to get the words out.
Jameson sighed, almost annoyed by the question. “I saw her with McCall. She was going to leave me. So I followed her to the hotel; I asked if we could talk one more time. She had found the newspaper articles about Phoebe’s death—that’s why she broke up with me.”
Lilia swallowed hard. “How did you kill her?” she asked again, her voice small and terrified.
“I went to the hotel to explain things to her, but she wouldn’t listen. She didn’t want me back,” Jameson explained as though recounting a routine argument. “I asked her if we could have one last drink together.”
Lilia’s eyes widened. “That’s how you drugged her.”
Jameson shrugged, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I dragged her out back. I knew there weren’t any cameras. We had met up there plenty of times.”
Her breath hitched. She felt paralyzed, her limbs heavy and numb. She tried to scream, but no sound came out.
“I drove to the train car station. I was going to get her to listen to me, to talk it through,” Jameson continued, pacing back and forth in front of her now. His voice grew more agitated, more unhinged. “But when I opened the trunk to let her out, the little bitch started hitting me.”
Lilia couldn’t hold back her sobs any longer.
“She just wouldn’t listen,” Jameson muttered, his pacing quickening. “She wouldn’t shut up. She hit me again—caught me off guard—and then she started running. It was like a game.”
A twisted laugh escaped his lips, and Lilia shuddered.
“You’re insane,” she whispered, barely able to get the words out.
