I Called For Help In Cold Room But My Husband Called Me A Liar Chapter 08

I Called For Help In Cold Room But My Husband Called Me A Liar Chapter 08

I clamped ghostly hands over my ears, desperate to block out the jeering, hateful shouts-but every cruel

word seared straight into my mind. I curled into a small ball in a far corner, my non-existent heart wracked with unbearable agony.

Thomas’s phone blared a sharp ringtone, and he answered without glancing at the caller ID.

“Cecilia. If you’ve finally come to your senses, apologize to Sasha at once, or else-

Alex cut him off mid-sentence, a faint note of urgency in his voice. “Tom, it’s Alex.”

“The DNA results from those skeletal remains came back. It’s Cecilia. Medical examiners date her death

back roughly three years ago…”

Alex hesitated a beat, his tone shifting to sharp interrogation.

“Tom, when you claimed Cecilia ran off with Dallas three years ago-was that actually based on solid

evidence?”

Thomas’s body went completely rigid, his Adam’s apple bobbing wildly. His voice cracked, rushed and

unsteady.

“Of course it was real. Sasha watched her climb into Dallas’s car with her own eyes. We confirmed that

vehicle was his getaway ride.”

A heavy silence hung on the line. When Alex spoke again, accusation lined every syllable.

“Where’s the tangible proof, then? Don’t tell me you convicted her solely on Sasha’s eyewitness account.”

All the strength drained from Thomas’s frame. He crumpled heavily onto the living room couch.

“That can’t be right. Cecilia called me just days ago, begging me to save her…”

A terrible realization crashed over him. He ended the call with a trembling thumb and scrambled to redial my

number, hands shaking violently.

A cold automated recording echoed through the speaker.

“We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service.”

The robotic voice stabbed at his nerves over and over. He couldn’t accept it, hitting redial again and again. until his phone died mid-call. Only then did he snap out of his blind denial.

An assistant stepped inside, carrying a thick folder of photos sent over by Alex.

“Mr. Jonson, Captain Alex sent these photos of the victim’s remains for you to formally identify.”

The photos spread across the coffee table: the rose bush dug up, a skeleton half-buried in mud, tattered scraps of my old clothes scattered around the bones.

Thomas’s gaze zeroed in immediately on the tarnished silver ring wrapped around the skeleton’s right ring

finger.

He knew that band better than anything. He could still visualize the tiny, crooked scratch he’d carved into the

C.S. engraving with his own hand when we first got married. Even blackened and corroded by dirt, he’d

recognize it anywhere. He’d crafted it for me himself.

I glanced at the photos of the rose bush and lifted a hand to touch the ring on my translucent finger-only to

find nothing there at all.