“Fuck him,” I say, gritting my teeth. I stare at the wall, my heart thumping against my ribs. “I hate him.”
And I do. I still haven’t figured this all out. To be honest, it’s about to drive me mad. Actually mad. Edwin is real, and no one will listen to me. But I’ve realized that Edwin must have used Jax to set me up—blame me for his murder spree. And I’d thought Jax wanted me. I’d believed him when he told me I was beautiful. Tears blur my vision, and I rock back and forth on the cot, trying to loosen the damn jacket. I close my eyes, and all I can see is Jax—that face, that smile, those dimples. I can feel his warm lips on mine, and my chest tightens at that bittersweet memory because I know everything he said and did was a fucking lie.
Shaking my head, I try to push away the thought of how he sounded when he came. “Jax told you I was insane. That I killed those girls. Did Jax tell you he fucked me? Just like a dirty little slut. He fucked me and used me.”
Anger ripples through my veins, my skin heating, my temples throbbing as I recall the way he felt buried deep inside me, his hands on my hips. Just the thought of him makes me want to scream. I struggle against the fucking jacket, thrashing from side to side.
“Elizabeth—” Dr. Roberts reaches for that little red button, and I freeze. If she pushes that button, the attending will rush in and jab me with a nice sedative. I don’t want that.
“I’m not crazy. I bet Edwin paid Jax to set me up. You know Jax saw Edwin. He arrested me and left Edwin there with those bodies. He’ll see,” I say, a subtle laugh slipping from my lips. “Edwin will kill him too. Watch.”
And I hope he does. The thought actually makes me quite giddy, because Jax is a bastard. He made me believe there was some decency to humanity, that maybe I could be loved by someone. Love is bullshit. Everything about it is an ugly lie. Edwin was right—sex and money are all men are after.
“Let me know when he kills him, will you?” I smile.
“Elizabeth—”
“My name’s Miranda.” I clench my jaw. “Miranda Cross.”
She inhales, tapping her pen over the edge of her clipboard before she glances at the clock. “No, your name is Elizabeth Ann Mercer.”
I shake my head adamantly, fighting against the tight restraint of the fucking jacket they insist I stay in. “No. It’s not.”
“Yes. You are EA Mercer, New York Times best-selling crime author.”
“No. That’s Edwin.” How he did this, how he managed to set me up like this, I still haven’t figured out. But I can’t really be surprised. He’s a genius.
“Elizabeth—”
“I’m not answering to that. Miranda. I’ll answer to Miranda.”
She casts a stern look in my direction before jotting something on her notepad.
“If I’m not Miranda Cross, explain to me how I worked at the Little Novel Bookstore off Fifth and Main in Atlanta. How I was enrolled in Emory.”
“You were never enrolled in Emory. You attended UNC. And that bookstore only exists in your books, Ms. Mercer.”
“No, I remember. And James. Creepy James…”
“All in your novels.”
I stare blankly at her. How can she be so stupid? Those places are real. I’ve been there. I’ve held those books. A brief memory flashes through my mind…I’m at my desk—no, at Edwin’s desk—a steaming cup of coffee next to me as I type in the name “Little Novel Bookstore.” I see the text pop up on the screen. I feel pride when I type the description of freckle-faced James. I did know a freckle-faced James…
I shake that thought from my head. “Just ask Janine. She’ll clear all of this up.”
Dr. Roberts arches a brow. “I can’t ask Janine, Elizabeth.”
“Well, why not? She’ll tell you how crazy he is. She’s the one who handpicked my manuscript to give to the bastard. She—”
“Janine’s dead.”
I fight the tears building in my eyes. Poor Janine.
“According to the decomposition of her body, she’s been dead for months.”
“That’s not possible,” I whisper.
A sharp twinge shoots through my head, and I close my eyes. For a fleeting moment, I remember the look of horror in Janine’s eyes when that ax came down on her face. I can hear her screaming and wailing. But I push that thought away. It’s not true. It’s not.
“It’s not true…” I mumble.
Dr. Roberts leans over her knees and takes a deep breath. “Elizabeth?”
I don’t like her calling me that.
“Elizabeth, why did you keep her in that shed? All the others you discarded, but Janine… you kept her.”
“I… uh…” Sweat builds beneath the collar of my jacket. I can feel it seeping from the pores above my upper lip. “I…”