I have to resist the urge to react, to let even a flicker of what I’m thinking show on my face. Chrissy is young. Too young for this house, too young for Phillip, too young to understand the kind of man she’s attached herself to. There is a softness to her, something almost childlike, but beneath it I sense somethingelse, something quieter and harder to define. Not intelligence exactly, but instinct. Survival, maybe. It makes it difficult to decide whether she’s a victim of this situation or a willing participant in it.
“So, McCullough,” she says, her tone bright as she leans forward slightly, “do you know the Millers down the street? They have the cutest dog, but Tara told me they’re thinking about selling. Can you imagine? This place is basically paradise.”
I offer a polite smile, careful to keep it measured. “It is beautiful here. Hard to imagine wanting to leave.”
“I know,” she laughs, swirling her wine like she’s seen it done before, like she’s practicing being the kind of woman who belongs in a house like this. “I’ve never lived anywhere like this before. Phillip’s been amazing, showing me around, introducing me to everyone. I feel like I’m living in a dream.”
A dream.
The word settles wrong.
I study her for a moment, wondering how easily someone can step into a life that isn’t theirs and make it look effortless. The house, the neighbors, the routines, all of it belonged to Whitney. And now Chrissy sits here, barefoot and smiling, as though it always belonged to her.
“You’re lucky,” I say, my tone softer than the words deserve. “Phillip’s been through a lot. Losing Whitney like that.”
Her expression falters, just briefly, before she smooths it over with something rehearsed, something that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah. He doesn’t really talk about it.” She glances down at her glass, her voice lowering slightly. “It’s so sad. The accident. I didn’t even know he was married until… after.”
I still, the glass hovering just short of my lips.
After.
I swallow the reaction that rises instinctively, forcing my expression to remain neutral. “That must have been… surprising.”
“It was,” she says quickly, nodding as if eager to justify it. “But he was just so kind. He said he needed someone to talk to, and I guess we just… connected.” She shrugs, her cheeks flushing faintly. “He started bringing me on work trips after he hired me, and things just sort of happened.”
Connected.
I let the word sit between us, heavy with everything she doesn’t understand. She says it like it was inevitable, like it unfolded naturally, but all I hear is timing. Opportunity. A man already moving on before the dust had even settled.
Her phone buzzes against the table, and she glances down, her expression shifting immediately. “Oh, I should take this,” she says, already half-standing. “It’s Phillip.”
“Of course,” I reply, keeping my tone light, uninterested.
She steps out onto the patio, the door left slightly open behind her, and the second she’s out of sight, the house seems to exhale.
I set my glass down carefully and rise, every movement measured. I don’t have long. Whatever I find, it has to be quick, quiet, and enough.
The living room is exactly as I remember it, immaculate in a way that borders on sterile. Nothing is out of place, nothing disturbed. Whitney kept it that way, but Phillip would have made sure it stayed that way. A controlled environment leaves very little room for mistakes.
Still, no one is perfect.
I move toward the bookshelf, running my fingers lightly along the spines, scanning for anything that feels out of alignment. The titles are all hers, the same ones she read and reread, but something about it feels staged now, like a preserved versionof her life rather than the real thing. I test one book, sliding it forward, checking behind it.
Nothing.
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to stay focused.
The office.
My pulse ticks up as I cross the threshold, the air inside cooler, heavier. Phillip’s space is exactly what I expect, clean, controlled, deliberate. Papers stacked with precision. Nothing unnecessary. Nothing careless.
Except for the drawer.
It sits slightly open, just enough to catch my eye, and something tightens in my chest as I step closer and pull it the rest of the way out. Inside is exactly what it should be. Supplies, receipts, documents that mean nothing at first glance. But beneath them, tucked just out of sight, is a small black notebook.
I lift it, my fingers tightening slightly around the cover as I flip it open.
Dates. Names. Notes written in his precise, deliberate hand.
