And then I see it.
Whitney.
My pulse spikes as I scan the line.
Whitney. Insurance policy. Double-check details. December third.
The date lodges itself in my mind immediately.
Just days before the explosion.
A chill moves through me, slow and deliberate, as I set the notebook aside and lower myself into his chair, the quiet hum of his laptop filling the space. I shouldn’t be here. I know that. But something deeper than logic is driving me now, something that refuses to let this go.
I open the laptop.
The screen wakes easily, no password, no hesitation, as if he never imagined anyone would look closely enough to find whatmatters. I move through the folders quickly, my fingers steady despite the tension coiling through me, until I reach the trash.
It’s instinct more than anything else that makes me click it.
And then I see them.
Two video files.
Dated the day before and the day of Whitney’s death.
My breath catches as I open the first.
The footage is grainy, pulled from the security cameras overlooking the back patio, but it’s clear enough. Phillip and Whitney stand by the pool, their bodies angled toward each other, tension radiating even without sound. He’s animated, sharp in his movements, while she stands still, arms crossed, her posture rigid with defiance.
I’ve seen her like that before.
Unyielding.
Certain.
Even when she shouldn’t be.
There’s something else there, though. Something small but unmistakable.
Fear.
It flickers across her face before she buries it, but I catch it, and once I see it, I can’t unsee it.
The footage glitches, and then his hand is at her throat.
My breath leaves me in a sharp, silent gasp as he forces her back against the poolhouse door, her body rigid, resisting, before the screen distorts again and cuts out entirely.
The silence that follows is deafening.
My hands tremble as I open the second video, my pulse pounding so hard it drowns out everything else.
This one is from the afternoon of the explosion.
Phillip exits the house alone.
Already dressed for the marina.
Already moving.
