Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
“Un-fucking-believable.”
I hear Phillip before I see him. I flinch, drop the lemon I just picked from the tree, and duck behind the hedge.
“I need to speak to your manager. I’ve already told you what the fire department said—I’m not repeating myself.” Silence stretches. Then: “Didn’t your adjuster log this already?”
Another pause. A sharp inhale.
“The fire chief determined the explosion was caused by spontaneous combustion. Polyurethane-soaked rags.”
My pulse stutters.
Spontaneous combustion?
“I hired someone to refinish the interior,” he continues. “I assume they had insurance.”
A beat.
“It was a freak accident. These things happen.”
I press closer to the hedge, barely breathing.
“No, the coroner hasn’t issued a death certificate yet,” he says, irritation edging into his voice. “But search and rescue has been called off, so I’m not sure what the delay is.”
My stomach drops.
Now they’re talking about Whitney.
I’ve never heard this version before. Spontaneous combustion. A refinishing job. A contractor. We talked every day. Every day.
How could she not have mentioned something like that?
She told me everything.
Every mundane detail, every passing thought—unless she didn’t have time.
“What do you mean there’s a chance you won’t release the benefits?” His voice sharpens. “I filed the claim. I paid every premium on time.”
This is new. Phillip is never like this. Never rattled. Never loud.
“You’re sending an investigator? For what?” he snaps. “The fucking boat exploded. What exactly do you think you’re going to find?”
A long pause.
“That boat was worth eight million dollars. More, with the remodel. I don’t have months for you people to get your shit together and release my money—”
He’s shouting now. I’ve never heard him lose control like this. Not once in ten years.
A grunt. A curse. Footsteps.
He moves away, deeper into his yard.
The call ends—whether he hung up or they did, I don’t know.
I stay where I am, frozen behind the hedge. Listening to the echo of his voice in my head.
Eight million dollars.
A dead captain.
A missing wife.
And Phillip—untouched.
My thoughts snag, then spiral.
Whitney and I are like sisters.
No—we are sisters.
We have keys to each other’s houses.
The realization hits so suddenly it feels like a physical jolt.
Keys.
I straighten slowly.
The idea takes root immediately.
I could go inside. Look for something. Anything.
Except—Phillip doesn’t leave for work. He doesn’t have to. He’s a venture capitalist. Independently wealthy. Or at least—he was.
My gaze drifts toward his house.
How stable is that wealth, really? He increased the policies on Whitney. On the boat. How much is a life worth? A few million? More? Enough to kill for?
Something hard settles in my chest.
Whitney knew.
That’s why she gave me the journals. That’s why she said—in case I disappear.
She knew he would get away with it if no one stopped him.
And I am not no one.
I am hers.
Ride or die.
’Til death do us part.
The tattoo burns against my skin like a promise.
Now isn’t the time to grieve.
Now is the time to act.
“I need to get inside that house,” I say a few hours later, cracking open a crab leg with more force than necessary.
“What house?” Bennett asks mildly, dipping a piece of crab into melted butter.
Sunlight catches in his wine glass, refracting across his face—calm, composed, untouched.
For a moment, I hate that.
“Whitney’s.”
He arches a brow. “That sounds like a terrible idea.”
“Does it?” I hum, pulling the meat free. “Phillip is already pushing for an eight-million-dollar payout on the boat. And who knows what he’ll collect once the coroner signs off.”
Bennett studies me. “They can’t issue a death certificate without a body.”
I shrug. “I heard him on the phone earlier. He expects it any day.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” he says. “Isn’t there a law—five years missing before someone’s declared dead?”
The word lands wrong.
Dead.
Whitney.
My throat tightens.
Everything about the past week feels unreal—like I’ve stepped into someone else’s life and can’t find my way out.
“I think there are exceptions,” I say finally. “Lost at sea. Circumstantial evidence. Florida law is… flexible.”
I’ve done the research.
Too much of it.
“It’s not uncommon for a presumptive death certificate to be issued within weeks.”
“Well,” Bennett says, “there’s certainly enough circumstantial evidence. The boat exploded. It’s a miracle anyone survived.”
“Is it?” I counter.
He glances at me.
“The captain is dead. Whitney is missing. And Phillip walks away without a scratch?” I shake my head. “That’s not luck.”
“Then what is it?” he asks.
I meet his eyes. “I don’t believe in luck.”