I swallow, forcing it through. “Do youthink Phillip and Chrissy were working together? That maybe they were planning something… before Whitney died. Insurance, maybe. That she knew about the boating accident before it even happened.”
Bennett goes quiet for a moment, his hands steady on the wheel as he considers it. Then he lets out a small breath, something almost like a laugh.
“I’ve seen stranger things,” he says finally.
“She’s in over her head if that’s true,” I murmur, more to myself than to him.
“She has no idea what she’s involved in,” Bennett replies, his jaw tightening slightly, something unreadable flickering across his expression before it disappears.
I turn my gaze toward him, studying the profile I know so well, searching for something that isn’t there, or maybe something that is.
Because for the first time, a thought takes hold that I can’t easily dismiss.
That maybe I’m the one who’s in over her head.
With Whitney.
With Phillip.
With Chrissy.
And maybe, even with Bennett.
The realization settles slowly, uneasily, threading its way through everything I thought I understood. My trust has been eroding piece by piece over the past few weeks, worn down by secrets, by omissions, by the quiet sense that something is happening just out of view.
And now, with the knowledge that I’ve been sleeping beside a man who keeps parts of his life carefully locked away, I have to ask myself something I never thought I would.
How well do I really know my own husband?
Chapter Forty-One
As I dust the shelves in Bennett’s home office later that afternoon, the investigator’s questions keep circling in my mind, repeating themselves with the persistence of a drip I can’t shut off. I’m cleaning because I need something to do with my hands. If I don’t keep moving, I’ll pour a drink, and if I pour a drink, I know exactly where the rest of the evening will go. Lately I’ve been doing too much of that, reaching for the bottle every time my thoughts get too loud, every time Whitney’s face rises in my mind or Phillip’s bloodied lawn flashes behind my eyes. It would almost be funny if it weren’t so pathetic, the way my coping mechanisms keep narrowing until all that’s left is alcohol and avoidance.
My cloth catches on the edge of something tucked behind a row of books. I pause and lean in, moving aside a few hardcovers until I see it more clearly. A thick leather folder, half-hidden, the kind of thing that looks deliberately placed rather than forgotten. Bennett hates anyone touching his office, even the cleaning crew, so I make a point of straightening in here once a week just to keep it presentable. Usually it’s nothing. A stack of papers squared off, a pen put back in its cup, a coaster returnedto the right side of the desk. But this week I’ve been drifting through the house in a haze, wiping down surfaces that don’t need it, trying to scrub away the tragedy next door by making everything else spotless. I’ve never seen this folder before, and that alone is enough to stop me.
I hesitate, the cloth still in one hand, my pulse picking up for reasons I don’t want to interrogate too closely. Bennett’s office has always been a controlled space, his sanctuary, the one room in the house that reflects him perfectly. Everything filed, categorized, and placed with a purpose. He does not leave things out of order. He does not forget. The fact that this exists at all, tucked just far enough out of sight to be missed unless someone was dusting behind the books, sends a low ripple of unease through me.
Curiosity wins before propriety can gather enough force to matter. I slide the folder free, guilt and apprehension rising together as soon as it’s in my hands. The leather is cool and smooth, the embossed initials on the cover stark in the muted light.
B.W.M.
For a long moment I just stand there holding it, listening to the quiet hum of the air conditioner and the too-loud sound of my own breathing. I know I shouldn’t open it. I know I should put it back exactly where I found it and leave the room before I cross a line I can’t uncross. But something in me has already shifted. Maybe it happened the night Whitney died. Maybe it happened the morning I found the noose in the yard. Maybe it’s been happening for years, quietly, beneath the surface, each omission and unexplained detail layering itself into something I never wanted to name.
I open the folder.
The first pages are legal documents, dense and cold, packed with clauses and terms that blur together at first glance. I flipthrough them slowly, trying to make sense of the language. Liability waiver. Indemnity provision. Non-disclosure agreement. The names of law firms I recognize but have never had reason to think about are stamped neatly across the top margins. The more I turn the pages, the more the unease in my stomach deepens into something sharper.
Then I see it.
A contract.
Tigertail Enterprises.
The same name the investigator asked Bennett about at the station.
I sit down before I even realize I’m doing it, lowering myself into Bennett’s chair as I pull the document closer and start reading more carefully. It details a business deal worth millions, one structured through a company I’ve never heard him mention. Bennett’s name is there near the top, clean and formal. Phillip’s is there too. The language is precise in the way legal language always is, detached and exact, but one clause catches and holds me.
Bennett is not personally liable for any losses incurred by the deal.
