“Hey, McCullough.”
Phillip.
He stands at the hedge dividing our properties, like nothinghas changed. Like his wife isn’t missing. Like the ocean didn’t swallow her whole.
Bennett’s arms are crossed. His gaze locks onto mine—sharp, deliberate.
A warning.
Don’t.
But how am I supposed to stay quiet when every instinct in my body is screaming that this man killed my best friend?
“Hi,” I say softly, stepping closer.
Bennett immediately tucks me into his side. Normally, I’d melt into the gesture.
Today, it feels like restraint.
Like he’s holding me back.
Because he knows exactly what I want to do.
I want to claw Phillip’s eyes out and dig until I find the truth.
“I told Phil if he needs anything, he should just give us a shout,” Bennett says, smiling down at me.
The smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
I nod, but the motion feels mechanical. There’s a tight, burning knot in my throat.
Phillip barely looks at me.
“So, as I was saying,” he continues, voice flat, “the Coast Guard is stretched thin with the regatta this weekend. They haven’t called off the search, but there’s only one boat covering the bay.”
My jaw tightens.
“Maybe we should help them look,” I say to Bennett, keeping my eyes firmly off Phillip. I don’t trust what I’ll see if I meet his gaze.
Darkness.
Or worse—nothing at all.
“How can they pull resources from a missing person casejust to monitor a sailboat race?” I add. “That feels… negligent. Borderline unethical.”
Phillip exhales, gaze drifting toward the water in the distance.
“She’s presumed dead, McCullough.”
The words land like a slap.
I blink, forcing back the sting behind my eyes.
I hate him.
God, I hate him.
And maybe I always have.
