“I hate him even more now that he’s dead,” I say, the words quieter than I expect but heavier for it.
Bennett exhales sharply and turns toward the door. “Don’t say that too loudly.”
I don’t respond. I don’t care if anyone hears me.
Inside, the house feels different, as if something from outside has followed us in. I lock the door behind us, the click louder than it should be, before turning back toward him.
“Do you think Chrissy could have done this?” I ask, the question pressing forward now that we’re alone.
“I don’t know why she would,” Bennett replies, moving toward the back patio to gather the dishes we abandoned earlier.
“Really?” I follow him, my voice tightening. “You don’t think she might be after his money?”
“I don’t know,” he says, glancing back at me. “You know her better than I do.”
“Maybe it was a fight,” I press, the need to make sense of it clawing at me. “Something that escalated. A crime of passion.”
“Or maybe it wasn’t her at all.” He carries the plates inside, setting them in the sink before leaning back against the counter. “The club didn’t exactly look friendly the other day. Butch seemed pretty angry.”
“Yeah,” I say softly, wrapping my arms around myself as something colder begins to settle in beneath the surface.
Bennett watches me for a moment, something unreadable in his expression, before a faint, almost amused curve touches his mouth. “You know,” he says, his tone light but edged with something that doesn’t sit right, “after your little performance on Phillip’s porch last night, I have to ask… did you kill him?”
The question lands harder than it should.
For a second, I just stare at him, my mind struggling to catch up. “What?” I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Bennett, are you serious?”
He shrugs, but his eyes stay on mine. “You were angry. You threatened him. And now he’s dead. It’s not that crazy of a thought.”
A chill slides down my spine, slow and deliberate.
It should be absurd.
It is absurd.
And yet, something flickers at the edges of my memory, something I’ve buried so deeply it almost doesn’t feel real anymore.
The night of the debutante ball.
The life Whitney and I took.
A secret so carefully contained that even Bennett has never touched it.
Maybe it isn’t as impossible as it sounds.
I force a laugh, lighter this time, pushing the thought away before it can take root. “You know I didn’t kill him.”
“I do,” he says, though there’s a hesitation there, small but undeniable. “But if anyone saw you threaten him and tells the police…”
The implication hangs between us.
“You could become a suspect.”
My stomach drops.
I hadn’t thought about that. About how easily the story could turn, how quickly my anger could be reframed into something else. I was so focused on confronting him, on forcing the truth out into the open, that I didn’t consider what it might look like from the outside.
“Do you really think they’d believe that?” I ask, my voice quieter now.
