“Payment first,” she says finally, her tone shifting back to something more practical.
Of course.
I reach into my purse and pull out the cash, sliding it across the table. Her eyes flick to it, quick and precise, before she tucks it away into a drawer beside her. Only then does something in her posture ease.
“What do you want to know?” she asks, her voice quieter now, stripped of the performance I expected.
I place Whitney’s journal on the table between us, my fingers lingering on the cover. “My friend, Whitney Winthrop,” I begin, and despite everything, my voice falters. “She died a few weeks ago. A yacht explosion. Everyone says it was an accident, but I don’t believe that. I think her husband killed her.”
For a fraction of a second, her expression shifts.
It’s subtle, almost nothing, but I see it. A flicker of recognition. Of something closer to fear.
She swallows, her gaze dropping briefly before lifting again.
“What is it?” I press, leaning forward, my pulse quickening. “You know something.”
“I shouldn’t,” she says, and this time the hesitation is real. “I really shouldn’t.”
“Did she come to you?” I ask quickly. “Is that why she had your card?”
“No.” The answer comes too fast, too sharp. “She never came to me.”
“Then why?” I demand, the frustration pushing through. “Why would she have this?”
She hesitates again, longer this time, her hands twisting together on the table as if she’s trying to decide something she can’t take back.
“If you repeat this,” she says slowly, her voice dropping, hardening, “I will deny it. To everyone.”
I nod without thinking, the urgency outweighing everything else.
Her eyes hold mine.
“Phillip Winthrop is my father.”
The words land hard, disorienting in their simplicity.
“Your father,” I repeat, the meaning struggling to settle into place.
“My real name is Courtney Winthrop,” she says, the name sounding strange in her own mouth. “We’ve been estranged for years. After my little brother died in a boating accident, everything fell apart. I wasn’t… handling it well. Pills, mostly. I became a problem he didn’t want to deal with. So he cut me off.”
My mind reels, trying to reconcile this version of Phillip with the man I thought I knew, with the version he presented to all of us. He never mentioned a daughter. Not once.
“Why would Whitney have your card?” I ask, my voice quieter now, more careful.
Courtney shakes her head. “I don’t know. But if my father is involved in anything you think he is, you need to understand something.” She leans forward slightly, her voice lowering. “You are not dealing with someone who plays fair.”
The room feels smaller suddenly, the air thicker.
“Why didn’t you go to the police?” I ask. “If you suspect?—”
“I don’t suspect anything,” she cuts in sharply. “Not in a way that can be proven. And even if I did, I wouldn’t go near them with it. Phillip doesn’t lose control of a situation. Ever.”
She stands abruptly, the chair scraping softly against the floor as she moves to one of the shelves. For a moment, she hesitates, then reaches for a small bundle wrapped in dark silk. When she returns, she places it in front of me without explanation.
“Take this,” she says.
I glance down at it, unease settling in my stomach. “What is it?”
