I remember their wedding—the way he looked at Whitney, not like an equal, but like something he owned. Something he’d acquired.
She called it protection.
I called it control.
“Do you think she’s dead?” I ask.
The question surprises even me.
Phillip’s eyes flick to mine—brief, sharp—then away again.
“Does it matter what I think?”
Yes.
It matters if you killed her.
“Did they search Tigertail Inlet?” I press. “The currents funnel everything there?—”
My voice falters.
Everything.
Including bodies.
“They searched everywhere,” he says, irritation creeping in. “All night. You didn’t see the spotlights?”
I shake my head.
I’ve been too busy crying into my pillow to notice anything else.
“I told her not to stand at the front of the boat,” he mutters. “I toldher?—”
Her.
Not Whitney.
Never Whitney.
I tune him out.
“Accidents happen,” Bennett cuts in smoothly. “You can’t live in the what-ifs.”
Phillip nods once. “Exactly. Best thing I can do now is get back to work.” A beat. Then, almost casually, “Hopefully the insurance company doesn’t drag their feet on the claims.”
My head snaps up.
“You’ve already filed a claim?”
The words come out sharper than I intend.
Phillip doesn’t flinch.
“Waiting on the death certificate,” he says, like he’s discussing a delayed shipment.
Something inside me cracks.
“Well,” Bennett starts, “like I said, if you need?—”
