I Called For Help In Cold Room But My Husband Called Me A Liar Chapter 03

I Called For Help In Cold Room But My Husband Called Me A Liar Chapter 03

The crushing cold lifted. When I opened my eyes again, I was floating in the hallway outside the interrogation room.

Sasha stood there, tucking an insulated food container into Thomas’s hands with a soft smile.

“I knew you’d skip lunch buried in work. Don’t forget to eat once interrogations wrap up.”

Thomas took the container, his gaze soft and tender as he looked at her.

“Got it. Wait for me in the office, and I’ll drive you home when I’m done.”

“Yes, sir, my devoted detective.” Sasha drawled, her voice cloyingly sweet.

I hovered a short distance away, watching the scene unfold.

Three years after my murder, the man I loved had fallen for the stepsister I loathed more than anything. A hollow ache spread through my chest.

After walking Sasha to her office, Thomas hurried back to the interrogation room, and I drifted along behind him.

Dallas sat chained to the interrogation chair, metal cuffs clinking with every small shift. He smirked the second Thomas stepped through the door, speaking unprompted.

“You guys got the count wrong. It’s not fifty-one victims. It’s fifty-two. The extra one’s the woman I slaughtered in that freezer.”

Thomas frowned, and Dallas flipped him off with a mocking smirk.

“Famed profiler Thomas Jonson. You still lost. You could sketch my face down to every scar, but you’ll never figure out who that fifty-second victim was.”

Dallas’s hoarse, manic laughter hammered against my ears. The icy terror of that night crept back up my spine.

I reached out instinctively, trying to grab Thomas and hide behind him—only to pass straight through his body.

Thomas set his sketchpad down on the table, his expression dismissive.

“I drew your profile. I can draw hers too, and then I’ll bring her home.”

“Is that so?” Dallas leaned forward dramatically, lowering his voice to a menacing murmur. “Go ahead and try. I hope you don’t break apart the second you see her face on that paper.”

Thomas’s pencil hand stiffened.

Dallas described every detail with gruesome precision: the agony of the stab wounds, my body ravaged by frostbite in the freezer, even the faint look of relief on my face when my throat was slit. Every person in the room paled as they listened.

Thomas, hailed as a once-in-a-generation profiling genius, found his pencil strokes growing heavier, each line dragging like lead.

A coworker leaned over to glance at the sketch and gasped in shock. “That’s Thomas’s ex-wife—Cecilia Shawn!”

The second my name left his mouth, Thomas’s grip on his pencil tightened until his knuckles whitened, carving a jagged gash across the page.

Dallas roared with laughter. “Thomas, can you bring her home now? If I remember right, you’re about to walk down the aisle with Sasha, aren’t you?”

Thomas tore the completed sketch off the pad, crumpled it into a ball, and hurled it into the trash can.

“You think mentioning her will get under my skin? You’re wrong.”

“She was cruel and petty, consumed by jealousy of her own sister. Three years ago, she leaked classified intel to you and sabotaged our raid, leading to the deaths of dozens of innocent women.”