Bennett exhales, his tone softening again. “I don’t know. But you need to be careful. If they start digging, they’re not going to stop where it’s convenient.”
I nod slowly, the weight of it settling over me.
He’s right.
If I’m going to keep pushing, if I’m going to find out what really happened to Whitney, I can’t afford to lose control likethat again. I’ve already stepped into the spotlight. One wrong move, and I could be the one they’re looking at instead.
“Do you think we’re safe?” I ask after a moment, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
Bennett studies me, something shifting behind his eyes. “You don’t?”
I shrug, though it feels hollow. “I don’t know anymore.”
He pushes off the counter, turning slightly as he considers me, then the house, then the world beyond it. “Do you really think this was random, McCullough?”
A shiver moves through me at the sound of my full name on his tongue.
“Maybe,” I say, though even as I say it, I don’t believe it.
He watches me for a beat longer, then shakes his head once, almost imperceptibly.
“Hardly.”
Chapter Forty
“This isn’t the first time the Seminoles have been connected to something suspicious in South Florida.”
The investigator taps his pen against a spiral-bound notebook, the soft, rhythmic click cutting through the stale air of the interview room. The sound is steady, deliberate, as if he’s marking time rather than taking notes.
“Have you spoken to many of the members?” Bennett asks, his hand resting lightly on my knee beneath the table, grounding me in a way I didn’t realize I needed until the tremor in my leg begins to settle.
“I put a call in,” the investigator replies without looking up. “Even if they are involved, they’re not the kind of men who leave anything behind. They’ve been tied to a dozen cases over the years and not once has anything stuck.”
He lifts his gaze then, fixing it on me.
“Says here you grew up on the reservation.”
For a moment, my heart stutters, caught between past and present. I haven’t thought about that part of my life in years, not in any meaningful way. Leaving was supposed to be enough. Itwas supposed to draw a clean line between who I was and who I became.
But records don’t forget.
People like him don’t forget.
“No,” I say, shaking my head, my voice controlled. “I was born there, but I was placed into foster care when I was two. Adopted by three. I don’t remember any of it.”
He watches me for a beat longer than necessary, then nods and makes a note, as if filing me away under something already decided.
Beside me, Bennett’s grip tightens slightly, his thumb brushing once against my knee. I don’t have to look at him to know he’s thinking, recalibrating, assessing the direction this conversation is taking.
“Anything of interest?” Bennett asks, his tone measured. “The club didn’t exactly seem friendly when they came through the neighborhood.”
The investigator exhales through his nose, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Butch isn’t talking. We’ve got a few guys looking into it, but even if we get a warrant for the clubhouse, I don’t expect we’ll find anything useful. We’ve been down this road before.”
He taps the pen again, slower this time.
“The thing about groups like that is they thrive on reputation. Fear. Intimidation. That’s how they maintain control. Killing someone who owes them money doesn’t help them collect, does it?”
The logic lands flat, too clean, too simple for something that feels anything but.
