My chest constricts at the significance of that statement.
For weeks now, I’ve refused to believe that Jameson Miles was coldhearted.
He is, though; no matter how the man I thought I knew presented himself . . . his reality is a lie.
“Jim doesn’t exist,” he said.
My phone rings, and the name Tristan lights up the screen. I frown. “Hello.”
“Oh my God, Em. They think they’ve found it.”
I sit up. “What?”
“Lara Aspin’s computer—there’s evidence on there that it was used to log in to our bank accounts.”
“What?” I whisper, wide eyed.
“We don’t have details yet, but the computer analysts just called to let us know that the history is very promising.”
I smile. “That’s great.”
“I’ll see you in the office in the morning? Come up to the top floor as soon as you get in.”
“Yeah, sure.” I pa
