Chrissy says it before she’s even fully settled into the lounger beside me, her voice thin and strained, like the words have been pressing against her throat all night and finally forced their way out. “Someone wants to kill him.”
Probably because he’s a murderer,I think.
The thought flashes through me, sharp and immediate, but I smooth my expression before it can reach the surface. “Really?” I say instead, lifting my sunglasses just enough to meet her eyes. “Who?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice wavers as she sinks into the cushion, her hands twisting together in her lap. It’s barely eight in the morning, the light still soft and forgiving, but she looks like she hasn’t slept at all. “I didn’t want to tell you yesterday, but it’s been happening for weeks. Calls. On the house phone, on his cell. They just kept coming last night. Over and over. We finally unplugged the landline, and he turned his phone off, but then…” She swallows, her composure slipping. “Then they started calling mine. How would they even have my number?”
I let a beat pass, watching her carefully, taking in everyflicker of fear that crosses her face. “He doesn’t have any idea who it is?”
She shakes her head quickly, tears gathering in her eyes again. “Phillip is so respected here. I can’t imagine anyone would want to hurt him.”
I almost laugh.
Respected.
That’s one word for it.
But I say nothing. There’s no benefit in correcting her version of reality. Not yet.
Instead, something else presses forward, a thought I haven’t quite allowed myself to fully consider until now. If the threats are real, if someone is targeting him, then maybe this isn’t just about Whitney. Maybe this stretches further, into the kind of territory my brother warned me about, into the quiet network of debts and power Phillip has been skirting for years.
“What are they saying when they call?” I ask.
“That’s the worst part.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “They don’t say anything. Just… breathing. And sometimes…” She hesitates, her eyes flicking away from mine. “Sometimes it sounds like there’s something happening in the background. Like someone is… being hurt.”
I let my brows lift slightly, just enough to mirror her fear. “That’s unsettling.”
“It’s terrifying,” she says quickly. “I barely slept. I kept having these horrible dreams that he was taken, like someone dragged him out of bed and locked him in some basement somewhere.” She lets out a shaky breath. “I keep thinking something is going to happen to him.”
I nod slowly, though my mind is already moving in a different direction, turning over possibilities, examining angles. Fear makes people careless. Fear makes them talk.
“I’ve been begging him to call the police,” she continues, her voice tightening. “For weeks. But he won’t.”
“For weeks?” I repeat, letting the surprise land naturally.
She nods. “He says there’s nothing they can do. That a few calls won’t matter. And he doesn’t want to involve them any more than they already are.” Her eyes search mine, desperate. “But I’m scared, McCullough.”
I study her for a long moment, searching for something beneath the fear, something that might tell me how much she really knows. How much he’s told her. How much she’s chosen not to see.
“How long have you been together?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can soften it.
Her eyes widen, then drop quickly to her hands, which twist tighter in her lap. “I… I don’t…”
“I told you,” I say gently, easing my tone, “I’m not judging you. Whitney and I weren’t as close as people think. We were neighbors. That’s all.”
She looks up at me then, studying my face carefully, weighing the truth of what I’ve said. I can feel the moment stretching, the quiet calculation behind her eyes as she decides whether or not I’m safe.
I need her to believe I am.
Finally, she exhales. “We met at The Roastery,” she says softly. “Almost a year ago.” She hesitates, then continues, “We’ve been seeing each other ever since.”
A year.
The number settles heavily in my chest.
I keep my expression neutral, but something hot and sharp twists beneath the surface. Dating. That’s what she calls it. As if there’s something legitimate about a relationship built in the shadows of someone else’s marriage. As if she was anythingmore than a secret he kept tucked away for when Whitney became inconvenient.
I think of Whitney then, of her easy warmth, her ability to make everything look effortless, the way she moved through the world like she belonged in it completely. She had a softness to her, a generosity that never asked questions, never pushed too hard.
