The engines roar to life all at once, the sound exploding through the neighborhood, drowning out everything else as Phillip disappears back inside his house, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that feels more like fear than defiance.
Within seconds, the bikes pull out, the line reforming as they move back down the street in a thunderous retreat, leaving nothing behind but the echo of their presence and a neighborhood that feels fundamentally altered.
The silence that follows is heavier than the noise.
Bennett and I remain on the porch, neither of us moving for a long moment, both of us absorbing what we’vejust witnessed.
I feel it all at once. The fear. The relief. The dark, undeniable satisfaction that Phillip is no longer untouchable.
“I hope they get him,” I say quietly, my voice steadier than I feel. “For Whitney.”
Bennett’s hand tightens briefly on my shoulder. “They will,” he says. “Men like that don’t outrun this kind of thing forever.”
As the last trace of engine noise fades into the distance, I look out over the neighborhood again, at the manicured lawns and polished facades that suddenly feel thinner, more fragile than they did before.
The illusion has cracked.
And once something like that breaks, it never quite fits back together the same way again.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The journal feels heavier in my lap than it should later that night, as if Whitney’s secrets have weight to them, something dense and physical that presses into my thighs and anchors me in place. The leather binding carries that faint, sharp scent I’ve come to associate with her now, something worn and intimate, something that feels almost alive. I turn the pages slowly, my fingers tracing the softened edges, absorbing fragments of her thoughts without really seeing them, as if the act itself might bring me closer to whatever she was trying to leave behind.
My thumb catches on something.
I still, the smallest resistance enough to send a ripple of awareness through me. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. I shift the journal slightly, pressing along the back cover until I feel it again, a hidden seam tucked neatly into the lining.
A pocket.
My pulse quickens as I pry it open, careful at first, then less so as anticipation takes over. Something slides free and drops into my palm.
A card.
It’s heavier than I expect, thick and glossy, the kind of deliberate design that wants to be noticed. Black, with ornate gold lettering curling across the surface in looping, embellished script.
Madam LaRoux – Medium & Psychic Counselor
Unveil the secrets of the beyond.
A Miami address sits beneath it, along with a phone number.
I stare at it, my mind struggling to reconcile what I’m holding with everything I know about Whitney. She was practical to a fault, grounded in logic, the kind of woman who would laugh outright at the idea of a psychic. I can hear her voice clearly in my head, sharp and amused, slicing through the absurdity of it.
A medium? What’s next, tarot cards and crystal balls?
And yet.
She kept this.
Not tucked loosely into a purse or forgotten in a drawer, but hidden. Preserved. Close.
Why?
The question settles heavily, expanding outward, attaching itself to everything else I don’t understand.
I reach for my phone before I can talk myself out of it, the movement instinctive, urgent. My fingers tremble slightly as I dial the number, the sound of the ringing line stretching longer than it should, each second sharpening my awareness of what I’m doing.
On the second ring, someone answers.
