Whispers of Deception

Chapter 35

Chapter Thirty-Five

S ebastian murmured to himself, sifting through one of the thick files they’d acquired from Mcall’s wife. “They really had everything on us.” He flipped another page, his eyes scanning quickly over the neatly typed reports, his finger tracing along the lines as if willing the words to reveal something new.

Lilia yawned, leaning back in her chair and stretching her arms overhead. “There’s too much stuff here. No way we’ll get through all of this tonight.”

The living room was dimly lit, and the only sound aside from their voices was the steady hum of the heater in the corner. Files and papers littered every available surface, scattered like a jigsaw puzzle of their lives. Each file was another piece of Willow’s death, the consequences of their secrets piling up like an insurmountable tower.

Delilah furrowed her brow as she carefully leafed through the pages in front of her. “Look at this one,” she said, her voice low and focused as she leaned over to show Sebastian the report she’d been reading. “Apparently, her bracelet was missing—the one that she always wore? It wasn’t there when they found her body.”

Sebastian shrugged, his face tired and drawn as he tried to suppress the rising panic that had been clinging to them for days. “Maybe she lost it.”

“I doubt it,” Augustus chimed in from across the room, his voice rough from lack of sleep. He was standing by the window, looking out into the night like he expected to see answers in the darkness. “She never took that bracelet off. Not ever.”

Lilia nodded, rubbing her eyes. She thought back to the countless times she’d seen Willow absentmindedly twirling that silver charm bracelet around her wrist, the little Tiffany heart dangling from it. It was almost like a signature—something that made Willow unmistakably Willow.

“Guys, come look at this,” Eleanor called from the kitchen island, her voice tense and grim.

“What is it?” Augustus asked, turning his back on the window and moving to join her. The rest of them followed, fatigue hanging over them like a cloud.

Eleanor pushed a piece of paper across the counter toward him, her expression unreadable. “Her autopsy report.”

The air in the room grew still, their collective breathing slowing as Augustus picked up the sheet of paper and began to read aloud, his voice catching slightly as the words sank in.

“Abrasions on the forehead, cheeks, and jaw. Signs of manual strangulation noted, including bruising and petechiae in the eyes. Defensive wounds on the forearms.”

Lilia stood on her toes to look over his shoulder, her stomach twisting as she read the rest. “Preliminary results indicate the presence of sedative substances, suggesting the deceased was drugged prior to the infliction of fatal injuries.”

A silence fell over them. It was the kind of silence that stretched deep into the core of their unease, heavy with the weight of what they’d just learned.

“She was drugged?” Eleanor’s voice broke as she tried to wrap her mind around it. She looked to the others, searching their faces for answers that none of them had.

Sebastian frowned, his expression conflicted. “McCall was with her after the party. He would’ve noticed if she was drugged, right?”

“Maybe it happened after he left her,” Delilah suggested quietly, her fingers gripping the edge of the countertop as if steadying herself.

Augustus’ eyes moved back to the report. “Personal items, such as clothing and the Tiffany charm bracelet, were missing at the time of discovery . . . ”

“Does that mean—” Lilia started, her voice trailing off as her heart sank.

Sebastian’s face paled as the realization hit him. His eyes hardened as he stared down at the page. “Oh my God,” he whispered.

Eleanor shook her head, her disbelief palpable. “They kept her clothes.”

The reality of it was overwhelming. Whatever they had thought before, this information changed everything. They were getting closer to the truth, but with each new detail, the truth seemed darker and more terrifying than they’d ever anticipated.

The tension was interrupted by the buzz of Lilia’s phone vibrating against the table. She fumbled for it, wiping stray tears from her face before glancing at the screen. “Hello?” she cleared her throat, trying to compose herself.

Her mother’s voice came from the other end of the line, sharp and insistent. “I need you to run an errand for me.”

Lilia sighed. “Mom, I’m kind of busy?—”

“There’s a casserole dish at Jameson’s. He took it with him after Thanksgiving for leftovers, and I need it back. I was going to get it myself, but I’m stuck at the office.”

Lilia squeezed her eyes shut, frustration simmering beneath the surface. “I’ll get it before I go home, Mom.”

“No, now, Lilia.”

“Mom—” The line went dead before she could protest further.

She exhaled a slow breath, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her shoulders. Grabbing her bag from the back of the chair, she stood up, her movements slow and deliberate.

“Where are you going?” Augustus asked, watching her carefully.

“I have to do something for my mom,” she replied, her voice sounding more tired than she intended.

“I’ll drive you,” Augustus offered, but Lilia shook her head.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll be back in a few hours—text me if you find anything useful.” She leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. Her lips lingered for just a second longer than necessary, the gesture as much for her own comfort as his.

The others watched her go, the door clicking softly shut behind her, leaving them once again with nothing but the cold remnants of the truth they were piecing together.

As the door shut, Eleanor slumped into a nearby chair, running a hand through her tangled hair. “What are we going to do?” she asked, more to herself than anyone else.

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.