There’s no hesitation in him, no sign of panic or grief, just efficiency as he drags a large duffel bag behind him. It’s heavy. Too heavy. The way he carries it is wrong, strained in a way that doesn’t match the casual ease he projects in every other moment.
I stare at the screen, my mind racing ahead before I can stop it.
Whitney is small.
Small enough.
The thought lands fully, cold and complete.
Ice floods through me as I sit there, unable to look away, unable to deny what I’m seeing.
Was she already dead?
Was the explosion just a story?
I force myself to keep moving, to search for more, for anything else that might confirm it, but there’s nothing. No additional footage. No explanation. Just these two moments, suspended in time, telling a story Phillip never intended anyone to see.
I send the files to my phone, watching the transfer complete with a sharp, focused awareness that borders on fear. If he knows I have these, if he even suspects, I don’t know what he’ll do.
But I can’t leave them here.
When it’s done, I close everything exactly as I found it, wiping away any trace of my presence before stepping out of the office just as Chrissy’s footsteps approach.
I slip back into the living room, lowering myself into my seat, my expression composed by the time she reenters, all bright energy and easy smiles.
“Sorry,” she says, settling back in. “Phillip just wanted to check in.”
“Of course,” I reply, lifting my glass. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, nodding. “Everything’s fine. So where were we?”
I meet her gaze, my pulse still racing beneath the surface, my mind already moving three steps ahead.
“We were just talking about how lucky you are to be here.”
She laughs softly, pleased, unaware.
“I really am.”
I smile back, but there’s nothing warm in it anymore.
Because now I know.
And knowing changes everything.
By the time I leave, the night air feels colder against my skin, sharper, like something has shifted irrevocably into place. I walk home slowly, my thoughts moving faster than my steps, turning over every possibility, every implication of what I’ve just seen.
Whitney didn’t die in that explosion.
Not the way they said she did.
Phillip made sure of that long before anyone ever reached the water.
My grip tightens around my phone, the weight of it heavier now, charged with something dangerous and undeniable.
This isn’t suspicion anymore.
This is proof.
