Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“Hey, babe!” I call out the back door, scanning the patio and pool for Bennett.
He said he was going for his morning swim just a few minutes ago. He’s done laps every morning since the day we moved in—a decade of ritual, of discipline.
Of control.
Watching his lean body cut through the water, droplets catching the light on his bronze skin, is practically pornography. Most mornings, I sit poolside with my orange juice, pretending I’m not watching him like it’s my favorite show.
I take a slow sip now, stepping toward the pool—and then I hear it.
Voices.
Low. Male.
My chest tightens instantly.
There’s only one person he would be talking to at this hour.
And it’s not the landscaper.
“Hey, McCullough.”
Phillip.
He stands at the hedge dividing our properties, like nothing has changed. Like his wife isn’t missing. Like the ocean didn’t swallow her whole.
Bennett’s arms are crossed. His gaze locks onto mine—sharp, deliberate.
A warning.
Don’t.
But how am I supposed to stay quiet when every instinct in my body is screaming that this man killed my best friend?
“Hi,” I say softly, stepping closer.
Bennett immediately tucks me into his side. Normally, I’d melt into the gesture.
Today, it feels like restraint.
Like he’s holding me back.
Because he knows exactly what I want to do.
I want to claw Phillip’s eyes out and dig until I find the truth.
“I told Phil if he needs anything, he should just give us a shout,” Bennett says, smiling down at me.
The smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
I nod, but the motion feels mechanical. There’s a tight, burning knot in my throat.
Phillip barely looks at me.
“So, as I was saying,” he continues, voice flat, “the Coast Guard is stretched thin with the regatta this weekend. They haven’t called off the search, but there’s only one boat covering the bay.”
My jaw tightens.
“Maybe we should help them look,” I say to Bennett, keeping my eyes firmly off Phillip. I don’t trust what I’ll see if I meet his gaze.
Darkness.
Or worse—nothing at all.
“How can they pull resources from a missing person case just to monitor a sailboat race?” I add. “That feels… negligent. Borderline unethical.”
Phillip exhales, gaze drifting toward the water in the distance.
“She’s presumed dead, McCullough.”
The words land like a slap.
I blink, forcing back the sting behind my eyes.
I hate him.
God, I hate him.
And maybe I always have.
I remember their wedding—the way he looked at Whitney, not like an equal, but like something he owned. Something he’d acquired.
She called it protection.
I called it control.
“Do you think she’s dead?” I ask.
The question surprises even me.
Phillip’s eyes flick to mine—brief, sharp—then away again.
“Does it matter what I think?”
Yes.
It matters if you killed her.
“Did they search Tigertail Inlet?” I press. “The currents funnel everything there—”
My voice falters.
Everything.
Including bodies.
“They searched everywhere,” he says, irritation creeping in. “All night. You didn’t see the spotlights?”
I shake my head.
I’ve been too busy crying into my pillow to notice anything else.
“I told her not to stand at the front of the boat,” he mutters. “I told her—”
Her.
Not Whitney.
Never Whitney.
I tune him out.
“Accidents happen,” Bennett cuts in smoothly. “You can’t live in the what-ifs.”
Phillip nods once. “Exactly. Best thing I can do now is get back to work.” A beat. Then, almost casually, “Hopefully the insurance company doesn’t drag their feet on the claims.”
My head snaps up.
“You’ve already filed a claim?”
The words come out sharper than I intend.
Phillip doesn’t flinch.
“Waiting on the death certificate,” he says, like he’s discussing a delayed shipment.
Something inside me cracks.
“Well,” Bennett starts, “like I said, if you need—”
I don’t hear the rest.
I’m already walking away.
The orange juice sloshes over the rim of my glass, sticky against my fingers as my hand trembles.
Fear.
Rage.
Certainty.
I collapse into the nearest lounger, staring blindly out at the bay. The sunlight is warm, almost cruel in its normalcy.
Like the world didn’t just end.
Tears slip free before I can stop them.
Bennett lowers himself into the chair beside me.
I don’t look at him.
“He did this,” I say quietly.
“McCullough—”
“Stop calling me that,” I snap. “I’m not a child.”
Silence stretches between us.
“If he didn’t,” I continue, voice tight, “then why is he already thinking about life insurance?”
“Because he’s a businessman,” Bennett says, clipped. “A well-connected, high-level real estate magnate in South Florida. That’s how people like him operate.”
“Well, that makes him a piece of shit.”
Bennett exhales sharply. “Piece of shit or not, there’s no proof of wrongdoing. And if there is, investigators will find it.”
I laugh under my breath.
Investigators.
Right.
“McCullough,” he says more quietly now, “you have to stop chasing things you can’t control. It’s only going to destroy you.”
“But what if I can change this?” I turn to him now, finally. “What if I’m the only one who can?”
His expression tightens.
“You don’t understand,” I push. “Whitney gave me her journals for a reason. She knew. She literally said—” my voice breaks, “—‘in case anything happens to me.’”
Bennett goes still.
For a moment, I think he might argue.
Instead, he leans back, closing his eyes, tipping his face toward the sun like he’s trying to escape something.
“Fuck, McCullough…” he murmurs. “If you keep going like this, I’m afraid I’m going to lose you too.”
My jaw locks.
He’s not wrong.
I will lose myself.
If that’s what it takes.
Because he doesn’t understand.
Men never do.
Whitney saved me.
More times than I can count.
And now she’s gone.
I owe her everything.
I owe her the truth.
And I won’t stop—even if the truth takes me down with her.