Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
“He moved her in.”
“Who?” Bennett murmurs from the breakfast nook the next morning, barely looking up from his croissant, his coffee balanced loosely in his other hand as if the question doesn’t carry any real weight.
“The murderer next door.” I slide into the seat across from him with a bowl of fresh fruit and a smile that feels just a little too bright for the hour, the kind of smile that suggests I’ve already decided something and I’m simply waiting for the world to catch up.
“McCullough,” he says, and there it is again, that tone that hovers somewhere between amusement and warning, like he’s already anticipating where this is going and wishes it wouldn’t.
“I watched them from the upstairs window last night,” I continue, undeterred, lifting a piece of pineapple with my fork and letting it hover there for a second before I take the bite.
“They were carrying boxes in. Late enough that most people would’ve missed it.
I’m sure that was the point. But I didn’t miss it.
” I meet his gaze then, steady and certain.
“I see everything. You should remember that.”
Bennett lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he tears off another piece of his croissant, crumbs scattering lightly across the plate. “So while I was sleeping, you were busy playing detective.”
I don’t bother responding to that, because it isn’t the point. “They kissed,” I say instead, quieter now, but far more deliberate. “I saw them. And not in a way you can explain away.”
He glances up at that, finally giving me his full attention, though there’s still something measured in his expression, something that suggests he’s choosing his response carefully. “Is that really surprising?” he asks.
“It’s been two weeks,” I say, and even without finishing the thought, the implication settles between us, heavy and undeniable.
“I know,” he replies, his voice even. “It’s soon. But that doesn’t mean what you think it means. Maybe those boxes were work things. Maybe she’s helping him with something.”
I lean back slightly, studying him as I chew, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make my skepticism clear. “Who moves work things into their house in the middle of the night?”
He doesn’t answer right away, just takes another bite, chewing slowly, as if giving the question more consideration than it deserves, which only irritates me more.
I shift my attention back to my bowl, spearing another piece of fruit, but my mind doesn’t stay there.
It drifts back to the window, to the angle I stood at, to the way the light fell just enough for me to see what I needed to see.
I replay it carefully, turning it over, testing it from every direction the way I’ve been doing since last night, searching for any version of events that makes it less than what it looked like.
It had been dark, yes, but not so dark that I couldn’t see the way they moved toward each other, the slight tilt of their heads, the pause before contact that felt intentional rather than accidental.
It hadn’t been dramatic, nothing desperate or drawn out, but it had been deliberate in a way that matters more than anything else.
Still, a quieter thought presses in, unwelcome but persistent.
Maybe it only looked like a kiss. Maybe the distance, the shadows, the angle distorted something ordinary into something it wasn’t.
Maybe he leaned in to say something, or to brush something from her face, or to close a space that meant nothing.
I let out a soft breath at that, already dismissing it. There is no harmless explanation that involves a man alone at night with a woman decades younger than him, standing close enough for their bodies to align that way, moving with that kind of familiarity.
No, this is exactly what it looks like.
And what it looks like is betrayal.
“Whitney doesn’t deserve that,” I say finally, my voice quieter now, but heavier for it.
“Or maybe Phillip doesn’t deserve to be dissected like this,” Bennett replies, setting his coffee down with a soft clink.
I look up at him sharply. “I thought you were on my side.”
“Someone is gone,” he says, his tone steady, almost careful. “I don’t think there are sides to take here. It’s just… unfortunate. And if there was something more to it, something serious, don’t you think it would’ve come out by now?”
“The investigators are still investigating,” I reply, the edge in my voice sharper than I intend, but I don’t soften it.
His gaze lingers on mine for a moment, long enough that I can feel the shift in him, the quiet exhaustion of someone who has entertained this line of thinking longer than they meant to.
He finishes his breakfast in silence after that, the only sound between us the faint scrape of his plate and the low hum of the house waking up around us.
When he’s done, he pushes his chair back and stands, pausing just long enough to look at me with something more thoughtful, more deliberate.
“Do you think,” he says slowly, “that maybe focusing on this is easier than sitting with what actually happened?”
The question lands deeper than anything else he’s said, cutting cleanly through the certainty I’ve been holding onto.
I stare at him, my chest tightening in a way I can’t quite control. “Is that what you really think?”
“I’m not saying I think anything,” he replies, softer now. “I’m just asking if it’s possible.”
I don’t answer right away, because the question doesn’t leave when he says it.
It lingers, settles, finds a place somewhere I don’t want it to reach.
It hadn’t occurred to me before, not like this, that maybe this need to find something darker, something intentional, is just my way of refusing to accept that there might not be anything there at all.
Because accidents are easier for everyone else.
But they’ve never made sense to me.
“But the journal,” I say finally, grasping for something that feels solid. “Whitney wrote things. She said things.”
“Have you found anything concrete?” Bennett asks, not unkindly. “Anything that actually points to something you can use? Because if you have, then we need to turn it in.”
My throat tightens.
I shake my head.
Because I can’t.
Not without everything else coming with it.
The memory surfaces whether I want it to or not, vivid in a way that makes my stomach turn.
The garden. The heat of that night. The moment everything tipped past the point of control.
Whitney’s hands steady where mine weren’t, the decisions we made without fully understanding what they would cost later.
We were young.
Too young to understand permanence.
Would we make the same choice now?
I don’t know.
I didn’t even know everything she did after I walked away that night.
I filled in the blanks with something that felt survivable, something that allowed me to move forward without looking back too closely.
Weeks passed, then months, then years, and nothing surfaced. No questions, no headlines, no body.
He disappeared, and the world didn’t notice.
But now, after reading her version of that night, the questions won’t stay buried. Who was he really? Did anyone look for him? Did anyone care enough to ask what happened?
“I know you’ve never dealt with something like this before,” Bennett says, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder, grounding and intrusive all at once. “But maybe talking to someone would help. A grief counselor, maybe.”
I let out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. “A grief counselor is just going to tell me there’s no right way to grieve. That I should sit with my feelings and process them.”
“Right,” he says, already turning away. “Well. Sounds like you’ve got a handle on it.” He glances back briefly. “I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”
I nod, though my attention has already shifted, my gaze pulling toward the house next door, toward the stillness that feels anything but empty.
What are you hiding?
The question settles in, quiet but persistent, and I press my lips together as something sharper takes its place.
Phillip is careful. Controlled. The kind of man who knows exactly what to say and when to say it. If there is something there, something real, I won’t get it from him by confronting him directly. He’s too practiced for that.
But Chrissy is not.
Young. Eager. Unaware of the rules she’s stepped into.
I reach for Whitney’s journal again, sliding it closer, the weight of it different now, more deliberate. I need to finish it. I need to be sure there is nothing in these pages that could unravel everything if it ends up in the wrong hands.
Because right now, all I have is instinct.
And instinct alone won’t protect me.
I carry the journal out to the pool, settling into one of the loungers where I have a clear, uninterrupted view of Whitney’s house, positioning myself just enough to appear casual, just enough to remain unnoticed.
Tigertail Beach Estates runs on quiet observation, on people who pretend not to look while seeing everything.
And now, so do I.
Unlucky for Phillip, I’ve just found something to focus on.
He won’t make a move without me noticing. He won’t take a step without me tracking it. I will watch, and wait, and piece it together until something cracks.
Whitney deserves that much.
And if that means inserting myself into his life in ways he won’t like, then so be it.
My first move is obvious.
I need Chrissy to trust me.
And I’ll have to do it carefully, quietly, in a way that feels natural enough not to raise suspicion.
Because if I’m going to get the truth, something has to give.