“No.” I inhale slowly, forcing the air deep into my lungs. My gaze drifts to the house next door, to the sharp line of Whitney’s roof just beyond the hedges.
Gone.
“No,” I repeat, quieter now. “There’s something I need to read.”
“Read?” Bennett frowns.
I don’t look at him.
“The journals.”
Chapter Five
“Whitney knew this was going to happen,” I say the moment Bennett rolls over the next morning. “I think he did it. I just can’t prove it… yet.”
“This again?” His voice is rough with sleep. “Were you up all night?”
“Not all night.” I grit my teeth, turning another handwritten page. “It’s hard to read.”
“Really? Why? Were things that bad between her and Phillip?”
“No. Not at all. It’s her handwriting. Like she wrote it in the dark—or in a rush. Like a fever dream.”
“Whitney was pretty crazy—” He catches himself, grunts, then corrects, “—is crazy.”
I don’t let myself linger on the fact that my best friend is probably dead. At the hands of her husband.
“She’s not the one who blew up the boat for insurance money.”
“McCullough—” He uses my full name. A warning. “You can’t just say things like that. We don’t know what happened. The truth will come out.”
“Will it?” I ask.
He exhales, then pushes himself out of bed and disappears into the bathroom. A moment later, the toilet flushes. He returns, hovering beside me.
“We should check on Phillip. See if he needs anything?—”
“Like help burying a body?” I snap.
“Please.” He rubs a hand over his face.
“He’s not my friend. I don’t want to see him—not now, not ever. He did this. I just have to prove it.”
“Just because Whit gave you her journals and said she didn’t trust him doesn’t make him a criminal.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
He shrugs, grabs a fresh pair of boxer briefs, and heads back into the bathroom. The shower turns on a second later.
My vision blurs. I’ve been staring at Whitney’s handwriting for too long, trying to make sense of it. Why didn’t she just type it? Send it in an email?
Because Phillip would’ve seen it.
My stomach tightens.
No. She gave me the journals for a reason.
They hold everything—our secrets, our history, a record of years built on half-truths and polished lies and perfectly executed parties. Whitney is many things, but she doesn’t invent fear. If she thought her husband was planning to kill her, she believed it.
