“When someone shows themselves to you . . . believe them.” My chest constricts at the significance of that statement. For weeks now, I’ve refused to believe that Jameson Miles was coldhearted. He is, though; no matter how the man I thought I knew presented himself . . . his reality is a lie. “Jim doesn’t exist,” he said. My phone rings, and the name Tristan lights up the screen. I frown. “Hello.” “Oh my God, Em. They think they’ve found it.” I sit up. “What?” “Lara Aspin’s computer—there’s evidence on there that it was used to log in to our bank accounts.”
