“That boat was worth eight million dollars. More, with the remodel. I don’t have months for you people to get your shit together and release my money?—”
He’s shouting now. I’ve never heard him lose control like this. Not once in ten years.
A grunt. A curse. Footsteps.
He moves away, deeper into his yard.
The call ends—whether he hung up or they did, I don’t know.
I stay where I am, frozen behind the hedge. Listening to the echo of his voice in my head.
Eight million dollars.
A dead captain.
A missing wife.
And Phillip—untouched.
My thoughts snag, then spiral.
Whitney and I are like sisters.
No—wearesisters.
We have keys to each other’s houses.
The realization hits so suddenly it feels like a physical jolt.
Keys.
I straighten slowly.
The idea takes root immediately.
I could go inside. Look for something. Anything.
Except—Phillip doesn’t leave for work. He doesn’t have to. He’s a venture capitalist. Independently wealthy. Or at least—he was.
My gaze drifts toward his house.
How stable is that wealth, really? He increased the policies on Whitney. On the boat. How much is a life worth? A few million? More? Enough to kill for?
Something hard settles in my chest.
Whitney knew.
That’s why she gave me the journals. That’s why she said—in case I disappear.
She knew he would get away with it if no one stopped him.
And I am not no one.
I am hers.
Ride or die.
’Til death do us part.
