I carry the journal out to the pool, settling into one of the loungers where I have a clear, uninterrupted view of Whitney’s house, positioning myself just enough to appear casual, just enough to remain unnoticed.
Tigertail Beach Estates runs on quiet observation, on people who pretend not to look while seeing everything.
And now, so do I.
Unlucky for Phillip, I’ve just found something to focus on.
He won’t make a move without me noticing. He won’t take a step without me tracking it. I will watch, and wait, and piece it together until something cracks.
Whitney deserves that much.
And if that means inserting myself into his life in ways he won’t like, then so be it.
My first move is obvious.
I need Chrissy to trust me.
And I’ll have to do it carefully, quietly, in a way that feels natural enough not to raise suspicion.
Because if I’m going to get the truth, something has to give.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Ifinished it.”
I toss the journal into Bennett’s lap later that evening, the worn leather landing with a soft thud against his thigh as he sits stretched out on the couch, half-focused on whatever he’s reading. The house is quiet in that heavy, end-of-day way, the kind of quiet that should feel peaceful but doesn’t quite land that way anymore.
“So what’d you find out, Nancy Drew?” he asks, glancing over with a sideways grin that feels too light for the weight of everything sitting between us.
I roll my eyes, though the gesture lacks any real heat. “Nothing the police would care about. It’s all circumstantial, isn’t that what they say?” I sink into the chair across from him, tucking one leg beneath me as I try to organize the pieces in my head. “Whitney was convinced Phillip was cheating on her the last few months. She found a private flight log to the Bahamas and then went digging through their credit card statements. He spent a long weekend at the same resort they honeymooned at.”
“Maybe he needed a break from work,” Bennett says,though his attention has already drifted back to the page in front of him.
“The dinners were for two,” I reply, watching him closely.
“Maybe he brought a business associate.”
I let out a quiet breath, something between disbelief and irritation. “To a romantic, all-inclusive couples resort?” I shake my head. “Please don’t be naïve.”
He grunts softly, finally lowering the magazine just enough to look at me. “So all she really had was a hunch?”
“A woman’s instinct is rarely wrong,” I say, though even to my own ears it sounds thinner than it should.
“Did you pick that up from Oprah?” he asks, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
A short laugh escapes me before I can stop it, unexpected and sharp in the otherwise still room. “I’ll have you know that woman practically raised me,” I say, leaning back slightly as the memory slips in uninvited. “Every day after school it was Oprah, Dr. Phil, whatever was on. Someone had to teach me empathy. It definitely wasn’t Kathy Williams.”
The image comes back clearer than I expect, Kathy sprawled across the couch, one leg crossed over the other, a drink in hand before the sun had fully gone down, her attention fixed on the television while everything else in the house quietly fell apart around her. Feelings were something to be numbed, not explored, something to be swallowed down and ignored until they stopped making noise. By the time I turned eighteen, leaving felt less like a choice and more like survival.
I pull myself back to the present, clearing my throat lightly. “Whitney also found the increased life insurance and the boat policy, but we already knew about that.”
Bennett lifts the journal from his lap and flips through it casually, his fingers brushing over pages that feel far too dangerous to be handled that lightly. My chest tightens as Iwatch him, a sudden, irrational urge rising to snatch it back before he stumbles onto something he shouldn’t see.
It isn’t that I’ve ever deliberately kept things from him.
I just never told him about that night.
The memory presses in quietly, familiar and unwelcome, and I force it back down where it belongs. The past is the past, I told myself for years. Whitney would never tell Phillip, and I would never tell anyone else. That was the agreement, spoken or not. What we did, what she did for me, stays between us. It was the least I could do.
