For the first time since everything started unraveling, the next step feels clear.
I reach for my phone.
I need my brother.
Chapter Eleven
“Hey, Mac?—”
Maverick wraps me in a hug before I can say anything, his arms tightening around me like he’s grounding me in something solid. I don’t pull away. We stand there for a moment, bodies pressed together, my cheek against his shoulder as I let his calm, steady energy settle into me.
“How’s life in the McMansion?” he asks finally.
A dry, humorless chuckle slips out as I ease back, though I keep my hands on his arms for a second longer than necessary. “Honestly? I wouldn’t mind running away about now.”
“Yeah?” he says, studying me as we move toward the worn picnic table. “Trouble in paradise?”
We sit, the table sticky from years of use, the smell of grilled meat and citrus hanging in the humid Fort Myers air. It’s been a few days since I overheard Phillip on the phone, but his words haven’t stopped echoing in my head. They loop endlessly—insurance claims, investigators, the casual way he talked about Whitney like she was already gone. I can’t seem to quiet it, no matter how hard I try.
Bennett has been patient—more patient than most would be—listening to me unravel it piece by piece at night, then again in the morning over orange juice and croissants. But even his patience has limits, and I can feel myself nearing them.
So I called Maverick. The only other person I trust without hesitation. The only person who won’t try to soften the truth.
“Whitney is dead,” I say finally.
The words land between us, heavy and immediate.
Maverick’s head snaps up, his eyes widening. “What?”
“Probablydead,” I correct quietly, though the distinction feels meaningless. I swallow, forcing control back into my voice. “Boating accident.Supposedly.”
He leans back slightly, watching me more carefully now. “You don’t believe that.”
“I don’t trust Phillip.”
Maverick huffs a quiet laugh, like that part isn’t even up for debate. “Who would? That guy’s always been sleazy.”
“Has he?” I murmur, though my attention drifts as the food truck owner calls out our order. Maverick stands, grabs the tacos and two glass bottles of Mexican Coke, then returns, sliding one toward me.
“I always thought so,” he continues, taking a bite. “He’s the kind of guy who smiles to your face while figuring out how to screw you over behind your back. All for a few extra bucks.”
I take a slow sip of my Coke, letting the sharp sweetness ground me as I think through what he’s saying.
“What does Bennett think?” he asks after a moment.
I sigh. “He’s firmly in theno body, no crimecamp.”
Maverick pauses mid-bite, something flickering across his face. “Really?”
“You sound surprised.”
He shrugs, chewing slowly. “Just thought Bennett was better at reading people than that.”
His words linger longer than they should.
I press my lips together, my gaze dropping to the table as I replay the last few days—the way Bennett has dismissed it, the way he keeps pulling me back from the edge of suspicion.
“He says accidents happen,” I murmur. “Thatlife isn’t a Dateline episode.He actually said that.”
