Page 77 of Somebody's Watching Me
Her phone buzzed, alerting her that an email had arrived. “It’s all there. Look at it,” he demanded. “From how she blamed Ben for what happened with Rebecca, to how she didn’t even forgive him until almost a decade later.”
Knowing he was watching for a reaction, Jamison kept her face blank. “That’s not true.”
But it was. There were no memories of her mother since she was so young when Laura Jean died, but the same could almost be said of her father. Ben Fairweather wasn’t known as Dad when she was growing up, coming around only now and then during the holidays or her birthday. It wasn’t until after she turned twelve that he really started paying attention to her, around the same time the icy barrier between him and Simone thawed.
“The suicide notes your father left say basically the same thing.”
Everything in her stilled. Her heart no longer hammering, her lungs uninterested in oxygen. Static white noise coated from the inside out, drawing her into herself. The discovery of her father’s brush with death came the year of Toby, and it had been painful to hear the details. No—more than painful. Devastating. It had devastated her to know he had been so lost in his grief that he accidentally overdosed on medications that were supposed to help.
“It was an accident. There were no notes.”
“Oh, baby.” Her phone buzzed again with a new email. “There’s a note for each of you, but two with your name on it.”
She stopped pacing, the room blurring around her.
“Sit down before you pass out, Jamison.”
Making it to the bed, she sat on its edge. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you deserve so much more. For your entire life, all you’ve ever been given is half-assed versions of affection. With Simone, you’re nothing but a pawn, and if your father had loved you, he would have fought harder to be in your life from the start.”
“Evie.” She could hold on to that. Her sister. “Evie loves me.”
“Evie tolerates you because she feels obligated after your mother’s death. Then we have Samuel. That prick never gave two shits about you until your father forced him to do so.”
“Selah,” she exhaled her brother’s name. “Selah loves me.”
“You’re nothing special for having his love. Selah is a genuinely good person, but it’s a love that sits on the surface. The people you’re around like the idea of you, but not the real you,” Michael replied, his voice strained as he moved. “Take Liam, for example. You’re one of the most beautiful women in the world. How could he not fall in love at first sight?”
Love at first sight was their joke. Whenever anyone asked how they met, Liam would tell the story of how she barged into his meeting with her father and of how he tripped and embarrassed himself. “You could say I literally fell in love with Jamison on the spot.”
And it was the truth. In an instant—in the very instant of shaking his hand, she had known Liam was her forever.
“It was love at first sight,” she insisted.
“And how’s that going for you?”
“Shut up!” She wiped at her tears. “This is basic manipulation, and it won’t work.”
“Did you want me to send you the notes from Liam’s therapist?” Michael asked, enjoying himself. “I have some that go all the way back to when the Ripper tried to kill his mother. Terrible thing.”
Her phone buzzed, but she didn’t even blink.
“Or how about the ones from his most recent sessions where he discusses all the shit he’s seen in the field?” A second buzz. “Or how about the ones that cover you? The notes taken post break-up make for an interesting read.”
A third buzz struck, and she felt it in the very marrow of her bones.
“Oh, and I included the voice recordings during what I like to call the Jamison sessions. You know, to give it that added kick.”
“Aren’t you worried Rowan will be able to dig information off these emails you’re so graciously sending me?”
“I’m not worried about Rowan. He’s good, but my guy is better.”
She straightened her spine. If Michael Sinclair wanted to play mind games, then let’s go. It was time he realized who he was dealing with and how Jamison Fairweather gave zero fucks when it came to the bullshit of manipulative men.
“As in, your guy could fake therapy notes and alter voices on supposed authentic recordings of therapy sessions?” she asked sweetly. “So, what you’re saying is the information you’re sending is worthless and can’t be trusted. Got it.”
Her phone buzzed again. And again. And again.
