Something shifts in his expression again, something real this time.
And then arms wrap around me.
“McCullough, stop.” Bennett’s voice cuts through the haze, urgent, strained, as he pulls me back, anchoring me before I can take another step.
I struggle against him, still locked onto Phillip, still burning. Phillip folds his arms, a slow, infuriating smirk settling onto his face as Bennett drags me away.
“You’d better keep your crazy, drunk wife under control,” he says coolly. “Next time, I won’t be so patient.”
I fight against Bennett’s grip, my voice breaking as I shout, “You won’t get away with this!”
Phillip only laughs, the sound hollow and sharp, before stepping back inside and slamming the door.
The finality of it echoes.
Bennett’s grip tightens briefly before softening as he turns me toward the house. “You have to calm down,” he says, quieter now, his voice threaded with concern. “You can’t do that. Not without proof.”
“He killed her,” I say, the words breaking apart as they leave me. “He killed Whitney, and he’s just… living.”
“I know,” Bennett says, pulling me closer. “I know. But this isn’t how we handle it.”
The anger begins to drain, replaced by something heavier, something colder. The realization settles slowly, pressing in from all sides. I gave him exactly what he needed. A reason to discredit me. To paint me as unstable.
I nod, though it feels hollow, the adrenaline already slipping away, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
Back inside, the house feels different. Smaller. Lesscertain. I barely make it through the door before the tears come, sharp and unrelenting, grief and fury collapsing into something I can’t hold back anymore. Bennett wraps his arms around me, murmuring something soft, steady, but I barely hear him.
All I can think about is how close I came.
And how much I still want to finish it.
I pull away eventually, forcing myself to breathe, to think, to regain some semblance of control. This isn’t over. It can’t be. But if I’m going to take him down, I have to do it right.
Smarter.
Quieter.
I reach for my phone, my fingers hovering for a moment before I make the decision.
Maverick.
The name sits there, waiting.
I press call.
He answers on the second ring. “Hey, sis. What’s up?”
I swallow, steadying myself. “I need to talk to you. About the Seminoles. Can we meet?”
There’s a brief pause, then his tone shifts, sharper, more alert. “Yeah. Taco truck. One hour.”
“I’ll be there.”
The drive feels longer than it should, my thoughts racing ahead of me, turning possibilities over and over until they begin to blur. By the time I pull into the lot, my nerves are already stretched thin.
Maverick is waiting at a picnic table, his vest unmistakable, marking him as something the rest of this town would never understand. He looks up as I approach, concern flickering in his eyes.
“Mac,” he says, studying me. “What’s going on?”
