I don’t hear the rest.
I’m already walking away.
The orange juice sloshes over the rim of my glass, sticky against my fingers as my hand trembles.
Fear.
Rage.
Certainty.
I collapse into the nearest lounger, staring blindly out at the bay. The sunlight is warm, almost cruel in its normalcy.
Like the world didn’t just end.
Tears slip free before I can stop them.
Bennett lowers himself into the chair beside me.
I don’t look at him.
“He did this,” I say quietly.
“McCullough—”
“Stop calling me that,” I snap. “I’mnot a child.”
Silence stretches between us.
“If he didn’t,” I continue, voice tight, “then why is he already thinking about life insurance?”
“Because he’s a businessman,” Bennett says, clipped. “A well-connected, high-level real estate magnate in South Florida. That’s how people like him operate.”
“Well, that makes him a piece of shit.”
Bennett exhales sharply. “Piece of shit or not, there’s no proof of wrongdoing. And if there is, investigators will find it.”
I laugh under my breath.
Investigators.
Right.
“McCullough,” he says more quietly now, “you have to stop chasing things you can’t control. It’s only going to destroy you.”
“But what if I can change this?” I turn to him now, finally. “What if I’m the only one who can?”
His expression tightens.
“You don’t understand,” I push. “Whitney gave me her journals for a reason. She knew. She literally said—” my voice breaks, “—‘in case anything happens to me.’”
Bennett goes still.
For a moment, I think he might argue.
Instead, he leans back, closing his eyes, tipping his face toward the sun like he’s trying to escape something.
“Fuck, McCullough…” he murmurs. “If you keep going like this, I’m afraid I’m going to lose you too.”
