Not ever.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“He moved her in.”
“Who?” Bennett murmurs from the breakfast nook the next morning, barely looking up from his croissant, his coffee balanced loosely in his other hand as if the question doesn’t carry any real weight.
“The murderer next door.” I slide into the seat across from him with a bowl of fresh fruit and a smile that feels just a little too bright for the hour, the kind of smile that suggests I’ve already decided something and I’m simply waiting for the world to catch up.
“McCullough,” he says, and there it is again, that tone that hovers somewhere between amusement and warning, like he’s already anticipating where this is going and wishes it wouldn’t.
“I watched them from the upstairs window last night,” I continue, undeterred, lifting a piece of pineapple with my fork and letting it hover there for a second before I take the bite. “They were carrying boxes in. Late enough that most people would’ve missed it. I’m sure that was the point. But I didn’t miss it.” I meet his gaze then, steady and certain. “I see everything. You should remember that.”
Bennett lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he tears off another piece of his croissant, crumbs scattering lightly across the plate. “So while I was sleeping, you were busy playing detective.”
I don’t bother responding to that, because it isn’t the point. “They kissed,” I say instead, quieter now, but far more deliberate. “I saw them. And not in a way you can explain away.”
He glances up at that, finally giving me his full attention, though there’s still something measured in his expression, something that suggests he’s choosing his response carefully. “Is that really surprising?” he asks.
“It’s been two weeks,” I say, and even without finishing the thought, the implication settles between us, heavy and undeniable.
“I know,” he replies, his voice even. “It’s soon. But that doesn’t mean what you think it means. Maybe those boxes were work things. Maybe she’s helping him with something.”
I lean back slightly, studying him as I chew, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make my skepticism clear. “Who moves work things into their house in the middle of the night?”
He doesn’t answer right away, just takes another bite, chewing slowly, as if giving the question more consideration than it deserves, which only irritates me more.
I shift my attention back to my bowl, spearing another piece of fruit, but my mind doesn’t stay there. It drifts back to the window, to the angle I stood at, to the way the light fell just enough for me to see what I needed to see. I replay it carefully, turning it over, testing it from every direction the way I’ve been doing since last night, searching for any version of events that makes it less than what it looked like.
It had been dark, yes, but not so dark that I couldn’t see the way they moved toward each other, the slight tilt of their heads,the pause before contact that felt intentional rather than accidental. It hadn’t been dramatic, nothing desperate or drawn out, but it had been deliberate in a way that matters more than anything else.
Still, a quieter thought presses in, unwelcome but persistent. Maybe it only looked like a kiss. Maybe the distance, the shadows, the angle distorted something ordinary into something it wasn’t. Maybe he leaned in to say something, or to brush something from her face, or to close a space that meant nothing.
I let out a soft breath at that, already dismissing it. There is no harmless explanation that involves a man alone at night with a woman decades younger than him, standing close enough for their bodies to align that way, moving with that kind of familiarity.
No, this is exactly what it looks like.
And what it looks like is betrayal.
“Whitney doesn’t deserve that,” I say finally, my voice quieter now, but heavier for it.
“Or maybe Phillip doesn’t deserve to be dissected like this,” Bennett replies, setting his coffee down with a soft clink.
I look up at him sharply. “I thought you were on my side.”
“Someone is gone,” he says, his tone steady, almost careful. “I don’t think there are sides to take here. It’s just… unfortunate. And if there was something more to it, something serious, don’t you think it would’ve come out by now?”
“The investigators are still investigating,” I reply, the edge in my voice sharper than I intend, but I don’t soften it.
His gaze lingers on mine for a moment, long enough that I can feel the shift in him, the quiet exhaustion of someone who has entertained this line of thinking longer than they meant to. He finishes his breakfast in silence after that, the only sound between us the faint scrape of his plate and the low hum of the house waking up around us.
When he’s done, he pushes his chair back and stands, pausing just long enough to look at me with something more thoughtful, more deliberate.
“Do you think,” he says slowly, “that maybe focusing on this is easier than sitting with what actually happened?”
The question lands deeper than anything else he’s said, cutting cleanly through the certainty I’ve been holding onto.
I stare at him, my chest tightening in a way I can’t quite control. “Is that what you really think?”
