The tattoo burns against my skin like a promise.
Now isn’t the time to grieve.
Now is the time to act.
“I need to get inside that house,” I say a few hours later, cracking open a crab leg with more force than necessary.
“What house?” Bennett asks mildly, dipping a piece of crab into melted butter.
Sunlight catches in his wine glass, refracting across his face—calm, composed, untouched.
For a moment, I hate that.
“Whitney’s.”
He arches a brow. “That sounds like a terrible idea.”
“Does it?” I hum, pulling the meat free. “Phillip is already pushing for an eight-million-dollar payout on the boat. And who knows what he’ll collect once the coroner signs off.”
Bennett studies me. “They can’t issue a death certificate without a body.”
I shrug. “I heard him on the phone earlier. He expects it any day.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” he says. “Isn’t there a law—five years missing before someone’s declared dead?”
The word lands wrong.
Dead.
Whitney.
My throat tightens.
Everything about the past week feels unreal—like I’ve stepped into someone else’s life and can’t find my way out.
“I think there are exceptions,” I say finally. “Lost at sea. Circumstantial evidence. Florida law is… flexible.”
I’ve done the research.
Too much of it.
“It’s not uncommon for a presumptive death certificate to be issued within weeks.”
“Well,” Bennett says, “there’s certainly enough circumstantial evidence. The boat exploded. It’s a miracle anyone survived.”
“Is it?” I counter.
He glances at me.
“The captain is dead. Whitney is missing. And Phillip walks away without a scratch?” I shake my head. “That’s not luck.”
“Then what is it?” he asks.
I meet his eyes. “I don’t believe in luck.”
Chapter Ten
Brandon agreed to be my escort for the debutante ball!!! And Stephen is escorting McCullough! She has no idea I set them up—I knew she liked him, so I casually mentioned it in our logic class, and I think he likes her too. My matchmaking skills are elite.
