Bennett’s attention flickers back to me, something unreadable moving through his expression. “She said that?”
I nod. “Over brunch. More than once. For at least the last year.”
“Did she write any of that down?”
“No,” I say. “She said it to me.”
He doesn’t respond right away, and that silence needles at me. I can feel my anger rising again as I watch Phillip and the blonde woman standing shoulder to shoulder beside the pool like this is some casual garden party instead of a memorial for his missing wife.
“What else could it be?” I mutter. “He came here with her. He literally slipped through the hedge with his mistress.”
Bennett straightens then, decision hardening across his face. “Well,” he says, already moving toward the pool, “let’s find out.”
I hurry after him, my pulse quickening. “How exactly do you plan to do that?”
By the time we reach Phillip, Bennett’s expression has smoothed into something warm and effortless, the kind of charm that has opened doors for him his entire life. He claps Phillip lightly on the back.
“Phillip. How are you holding up?”
Phillip’s eyes flick between us, wary and flat. “Fine,” he says after a beat. “Considering.”
He places a hand near the blonde woman’s elbow, not quite touching her but claiming her space all the same. “This is Chrissy, my executive assistant. She’s been a lifesaver these last few weeks.”
“I bet,” I say before I can stop myself.
The words slip out sharper than I intended, and the silence that follows them is brief but unmistakable. This is her. The woman Whitney told me about over brunch that day, the one behind the phone records and all those unanswered questions. Whitney had been right. Every ugly suspicion she voiced had been true.
Phillip’s gaze turns glacial, colder even than usual, and I have to force myself not to say the thing sitting hot and ready on my tongue—that he killed his wife and brought his replacement to the memorial.
Bennett steps in smoothly before the moment can sour any further. “Nice to meet you, Chrissy,” he says, offering his hand. “Did you know Whitney?”
“No.” She smiles too quickly, her voice sweet in that practiced, agreeable way some women have. “Phillip hired me a few months ago, so we didn’t really get the chance. It’s all been a bit of a whirlwind.”
“I’m sure it has,” I say, and this time I manage to keep my tone polite, if tight.
Phillip seems to sense the direction of my thoughts because he takes a step away from Chrissy and claps a hand on Bennett’s shoulder. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you about something,” he says. “Business.”
Bennett glances at me briefly, then nods. “Of course.”
I watch them walk off together toward the edge of the yard, toward the bay, their heads already bent in conversation. The second they’re out of earshot, I turn back to Chrissy with the warmest smile I can manage.
“Are you enjoying working with Phillip?”
“Oh, sure.” She gives a nervous little laugh and glances around the yard, and I can tell immediately that she knows she doesn’t belong here. She’s young—too young, probably not even thirty—and whatever dress she’s wearing came straight off a rack somewhere local, the kind of thing you’d pick up on impulse in a beach boutique. There’s nothing wrong with that, not really, but everything about her feels out of step with this crowd, with this neighborhood, with Whitney’s life. Whitney was raised in rooms like this. She knew the rules, the signals, the brands people pretended not to notice while always noticing.
Chrissy looks like what she is: new.
And temporary.
“Phillip can be intense,” I say lightly. “He and my husband have worked together a bit, so I know how demanding he can be.”
“Oh, really?” She reaches for a flute of champagne from a passing tray and takes a sip, swallowing too fast, like she’s trying to steady herself. “He’s been really kind, actually.”
Kind.
The word is so absurd in relation to Phillip that I almost laugh.
“How long have you known Whitney?” she asks after a beat, and the question comes out tentative, like she realizes too late how inappropriate it sounds.
