Chapter 5
Chapter Five
“Whitney knew this was going to happen,” I say the moment Bennett rolls over the next morning. “I think he did it. I just can’t prove it… yet.”
“This again?” His voice is rough with sleep. “Were you up all night?”
“Not all night.” I grit my teeth, turning another handwritten page. “It’s hard to read.”
“Really? Why? Were things that bad between her and Phillip?”
“No. Not at all. It’s her handwriting. Like she wrote it in the dark—or in a rush. Like a fever dream.”
“Whitney was pretty crazy—” He catches himself, grunts, then corrects, “—is crazy.”
I don’t let myself linger on the fact that my best friend is probably dead. At the hands of her husband.
“She’s not the one who blew up the boat for insurance money.”
“McCullough—” He uses my full name. A warning. “You can’t just say things like that. We don’t know what happened. The truth will come out.”
“Will it?” I ask.
He exhales, then pushes himself out of bed and disappears into the bathroom. A moment later, the toilet flushes. He returns, hovering beside me.
“We should check on Phillip. See if he needs anything—”
“Like help burying a body?” I snap.
“Please.” He rubs a hand over his face.
“He’s not my friend. I don’t want to see him—not now, not ever. He did this. I just have to prove it.”
“Just because Whit gave you her journals and said she didn’t trust him doesn’t make him a criminal.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
He shrugs, grabs a fresh pair of boxer briefs, and heads back into the bathroom. The shower turns on a second later.
My vision blurs. I’ve been staring at Whitney’s handwriting for too long, trying to make sense of it. Why didn’t she just type it? Send it in an email?
Because Phillip would’ve seen it.
My stomach tightens.
No. She gave me the journals for a reason.
They hold everything—our secrets, our history, a record of years built on half-truths and polished lies and perfectly executed parties. Whitney is many things, but she doesn’t invent fear. If she thought her husband was planning to kill her, she believed it.
And that means something.
Still turning it over in my mind, I pad into the bathroom and step into the shower behind Bennett. I slip out of my nightshirt and let it fall before pressing into his back.
Hot water rains down, steady and loud.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Bennett has always been like this—quiet, grounded. When he speaks, it matters. He doesn’t fill space just to hear himself talk like everyone else around us.
In a world full of performance, Bennett is real.
I’ve always thought I was lucky.
But was Whitney?
I used to think so. I used to think we’d both found something rare.
Our weddings—nine months apart—are held at The Pierre in Naples. The same place as the Gulf Coast Debutante Ball. The same place Whitney’s husband invests in.
The same place everything changed.
Where our nightmare began.
Or ended.
Depending on how you look at it.
Whitney saved me that night. She’s saved me more times than I can count.
So why does it feel like now—it’s my turn?
Tears slip down my cheeks, dissolving into the spray.
Bennett turns without a word and pulls me into him.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into my hair.
I cling to him, my body shaking, afraid that if I let go, I’ll collapse completely.
An hour later, Bennett leaves for work, and I wander the house without direction, my thoughts looping endlessly.
The morning sun filters through the kitchen windows, casting fractured light across the marble floors. The house is too quiet. The kind of quiet that lets your thoughts run unchecked.
I’ve been drowning in them.
Whitney’s death.
Phillip’s infidelity.
The certainty that something isn’t right.
Today, I need a break.
Retail therapy won’t fix anything, but it might distract me long enough to breathe. It’s not like I can talk to Bennett—he already thinks grief is making me unstable.
Maybe he’s not entirely wrong.
I grab my tote and head for the door.
The moment I open it, my breath catches.
A knife is embedded in the wood.
Sleek. Polished. Intentional.
It gleams in the sunlight—and beneath it—photographs.
My stomach drops.
I step closer, my hand shaking as I pull the first one free. The blade has sliced cleanly through a photo of Whitney and me at the debutante ball, our smiles frozen in time.
But my face—my face is scratched out.
Violent, jagged strokes of red ink carve through me, bleeding across the image like a wound. Whitney’s side is untouched. Perfect.
I flip it over.
last one left
The words hit harder than the knife.
The photo slips from my fingers.
The second one trembles in my grip before I can even fully process it.
It’s me.
Sleeping.
I’m in bed beside Bennett, curled into my pillow, wearing the nightie I had on last night.
Last night.
The angle is wrong—too high, too close. Like whoever took it was standing in the room.
Or watching through the window.
A drone.
My pulse spikes.
Someone was here.
In my house.
In my room.
Watching me.
The knife. The photos. My ruined face.
This isn’t random.
It’s deliberate.
Personal.
A message.
I force myself to look at the knife again. The handle is engraved, delicate lettering etched into the metal:
M.W.M.
My initials.
Elegant.
Intimate.
Wrong.
I scan the street, searching for movement, for anyone watching—but everything looks normal. Too normal.
The quiet presses in.
I retreat inside and lock the door.
The photos land on the kitchen counter with a sharp slap as I start pacing, my thoughts spiraling faster, darker.
The debutante photo burns.
That night—the beginning of everything. A world of wealth and power dressed up as perfection, hiding something rotten underneath.
Whoever left this knows that.
Knows what that night means.
And the other photo—that’s something else entirely.
It’s violation.
Control.
Whoever did this was close.
Too close.
I stare at the knife again.
This isn’t Phillip.
It doesn’t feel like him.
He’s calculated.
This is something messier.
Obsessive.
I pick up the photo again, my gaze lingering on Whitney’s untouched face.
Grief and rage twist together in my chest.
Someone is telling me something.
But what?
That they know?
That they blame me?
Or something worse?
I reach for my phone, then stop.
The police?
Bennett?
Whitney would know what to do.
But Whitney isn’t here.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.
I look back at the photos.
They wanted me to be afraid.
Congratulations.
It’s working.
But beneath the fear, something else is rising.
Anger.
Sharp. Steady.
I’m not going to let them control me.
Not Phillip.
Not whoever did this.
I don’t know what game this is—but I’m not the one who’s going to lose.