Page 77 of Whispers of Deception

The question hung in the air, unanswered and heavy, as they sat in the dimly lit room, surrounded by the scattered remnants of Willow’s life, the mystery of her death growing darker and more sinister with each passing second.

“We’re not done yet,” Augustus said, his voice low and determined. He walked over to the board they had assembled on the far wall—a collage of photos, papers, and torn-up pieces of reports. Their murder board had become a chaotic, but meaningful roadmap of the last few months. In the center was a photo of Willow, her smile now hauntingly out of place.

“We need to go back to Phoebe Hastings,” Eleanor said, eyes red with fatigue but glimmering with purpose. “Something about her death doesn’t sit right with me.”

They nodded in agreement, each of them knowing that Phoebe was the key they had overlooked. Delilah started flipping through the files, her fingers landing on the stack of information they had on Phoebe’s death.

“Here,” she said, pulling out an old newspaper article. “Phoebe Hastings died in a murder-suicide. She drove her car off a bridge in Cambridge. But there’s more—a suicide note was left behind.”

Eleanor leaned in closer. “What does it say?”

Delilah scanned the paper quickly. “She was sick—terminal cancer. The note says she was in pain, couldn’t do it anymore, and that’s why she took her life and her son’s.”

Eleanor was typing furiously on her laptop, digging through every source she could find about Phoebe Hastings. Minutes passed in tense silence until finally, she stopped.

“Guys,” Eleanor whispered, her voice barely audible. She turned the laptop toward them, her face drained of color. “Look.”

They all gathered around her, staring in disbelief at the screen. The article was clear as day—a cabin deeded under Phoebe Hastings’s name.

Chapter Thirty-Six

She knocked on the door, once and then again, the chilling cold biting at her bones. The home in front of her was stately and large, with high windows and trimmed trees. She assumed it had been passed down through his family; it was the kind of home that belonged to those with old money. Seconds seemed to turn into minutes, and as she turned to leave, the door opened—the wood scraping against the porch.

“Lilia?” His voice made her turn.

“Hi.” She brushed a stray hair out of her face. “I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you. I can come back another time.”

“No.” Professor Jameson shook his head. “I was doing some reading. Come in—have a seat.”

“I won’t be staying long. I’m here for the casserole dish that my mom let you borrow.”

The words caused a visible light to go off in his head. “Ah. The dish. Of course.” He pushed his glasses up. “Sit. It’s in here somewhere. I’ll be just a minute.”

Lilia nodded, her hands shoved into her jacket pocket as she rocked on the heels of her boots. It felt strange being in his home. It wasn’t anything like she had been expecting. Far grander, like something so normal for the townsfolk ofMills Creek. Photos lined the walls, portraits of animals, family members—there was a bookshelf on the far wall, filled to the brim with leather-bound books and classics.

“You have so many books,” Lilia said aloud.

She was met by the sound of pots clanging in the kitchen.

“Do you collect them?” she asked.

“It’s a bit odd, no? Although cliché, if anything. Very on the nose for a professor,” Jameson called out from the kitchen.

Her fingers grazed the worn leather, the crumbling pages feeling so used and loved under her touch. She longed to have a collection like this one day. She plucked one from the shelf, flipping through it and sliding it back. She repeated the movement over and over until her fingers caught on a brown notebook. She tilted her head, snagging it from the shelf; it was tearing at the seams, words bursting out from how much had been written in it. She smiled softly, turning the book over in her hand, and as quickly as the smile appeared on her face, it disappeared. Her stomach dropped. She exhaled sharply as her eyes zeroed in on the embroidered lettering on the front. WM was etched across it.

It was Willow’s journal, the one she carried everywhere, always. But here it was, on Jameson’s bookshelf.

The creaking of the floorboards made her slip the book back onto the shelf, her hand grasping the one furthest from it as he entered the living room.

“Find anything you like?” Jameson stood, holding the casserole dish in his hands. “Feel free to take one.”

“I did.” She was holding onto the book so tightly, she was surprised the pages hadn’t torn. “Do you mind if I keep this one? I’ll return it when I’m done, promise.”

“Take whatever you like. I’ve read them all a million times.” He crossed the room to stand in front of her. “Here you are.”

“Thank you.” Her smile was tight and fake, but she couldn’t control it. She felt like she might puke. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” she asked.

“Of course,” he nodded. “Down the hall, it’s the last door. You can’t miss it.”

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