Yale.
Family money.
Citrus empire.
Homes in Palm Beach, Martha’s Vineyard, the South of France.
Perfect on paper.
But paper lies.
The question I can’t stop circling now is—who is he when no one’s watching?
Chapter Nine
“Un-fucking-believable.”
I hear Phillip before I see him. I flinch, drop the lemon I just picked from the tree, and duck behind the hedge.
“I need to speak to your manager. I’ve already told you what the fire department said—I’m not repeating myself.” Silence stretches. Then: “Didn’t your adjuster log this already?”
Another pause. A sharp inhale.
“The fire chief determined the explosion was caused by spontaneous combustion. Polyurethane-soaked rags.”
My pulse stutters.
Spontaneous combustion?
“I hired someone to refinish the interior,” he continues. “I assume they had insurance.”
A beat.
“It was a freak accident. These things happen.”
I press closer to the hedge, barely breathing.
“No, the coroner hasn’t issued a death certificate yet,” he says, irritation edging into his voice. “But search and rescue has been called off, so I’m not sure what the delay is.”
My stomach drops.
Now they’re talking about Whitney.
I’ve never heard this version before. Spontaneous combustion. A refinishing job. A contractor. We talked every day. Every day.
How could she not have mentioned something like that?
She told me everything.
Every mundane detail, every passing thought—unless she didn’t have time.
“What do you mean there’s a chance you won’t release the benefits?” His voice sharpens. “I filed the claim. I paid every premium on time.”
This is new. Phillip is never like this. Never rattled. Never loud.
“You’re sending an investigator? For what?” he snaps. “The fucking boat exploded. What exactly do you think you’re going to find?”
A long pause.
