Julia reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, her touch warm, grounding. “We all are. And you’ve had the worst of it, losing Whitney like that. If you need anything…”
I nod, returning the pressure of her hand even though the words feel hollow. “I know. Thank you.”
The conversation shifts after that, easing into safer territory, vacations, new boutiques, the opening of a restaurant downtown that everyone insists we have to try. The laughter returns, lighter this time, but I don’t follow it. My thoughts keep circling back, threading together details that refuse to stay separate. Phillip. The Seminoles. Whitney.
Pieces of something I don’t yet understand.
“Has anyone heard from Phillip today?” Tara asks suddenly, drawing the focus back where it belongs.
Caroline shakes her head. “No. I haven’t seen him at all. I imagine he’s keeping a low profile after yesterday.”
“Can you blame him?” Stephanie adds. “If a motorcycle club showed up at my front door, I’d disappear too.”
Julia leans forward again, curiosity brightening her expression. “Do you think we should check on him? Just to make sure he’s alright?”
The suggestion lands wrong, something cold slipping down my spine at the thought of facing him now, of standing close enough to see his expression, to hear his voice. I swallow, steadying myself.
“Maybe it’s better to give him space,” I say carefully. “He’s been through a lot.”
They nod, accepting it, letting it go.
But I don’t.
Because I know this isn’t over. Men like that don’t simply absorb something like yesterday and move on. And the Seminoles don’t make appearances without purpose.
By the time we leave, the air feels heavier than when we arrived, the sunlight sharper, almost intrusive. I barely register the drive home. By the time I step out of the car, something inside me has already shifted, the slow burn of anger rising to the surface, fed by everything I’ve seen, everything I know.
I don’t think. I move.
The lawn stretches between our houses, perfectly trimmed, immaculate in a way that suddenly feels obscene. My bare feet hit the grass harder than necessary as I cross it, my pulse pounding in my ears, heat rising through my chest until it feels like it might split me open. I can’t hold it in anymore. I won’t.
His door comes into view, solid and unremarkable, just another entrance to a life that should have been ordinary.
I pound on it.
The sound echoes, sharp and final, cutting through the quiet like a fracture. My hands tremble, my vision narrowing, everything inside me condensing into one singular, undeniable truth.
He opens the door.
Phillip stands there like nothing has happened, dressed casually, composed, the picture of a man untouched by the chaos surrounding him. The normalcy of it is what pushes me over the edge, something in me snapping cleanly into place.
“You killed her,” I say, the words leaving me before I can shape them into anything softer. “I know you did. I know you killed Whitney.”
For a split second, something flickers across his face. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Then it’s gone, replaced by cold dismissal.
“This again?” he says flatly, irritation bleeding into his tone. “You’re insane. Get off my property.”
I step closer, closing the distance between us. “Don’t you dare dismiss me. I know what you did, and I’m not going to let you walk away from it.”
He exhales sharply, shaking his head as if I’ve become an inconvenience. “You’ve lost it, McCullough. Seriously. Leave before I call the police.”
But I don’t move. I can’t. The anger is too loud now, drowning out everything else, every rational thought reduced to noise beneath the need to make him feel even a fraction of what I feel.
“You think you’re untouchable,” I say, my voice rising despite myself. “But I see you. I see exactly what you are. A coward. A liar. A murderer.”
His jaw tightens, but I don’t stop.
“If I could, I’d kill you myself,” I say, the words low, deliberate, pulled from somewhere deeper than I should be willingto go. “If I thought I could get away with it, I’d do it right here.”
