Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
The mansion is just as breathtaking as the last time I stood inside it.
Every surface gleams, every detail curated to perfection, from the cool stretch of marble beneath my feet to the vaulted ceilings dripping in crystal.
It should feel familiar, comforting even, but instead there’s something off in the air, something faintly wrong that settles against my skin and refuses to lift.
The house hasn’t changed, not really. But the energy has. Or maybe I have.
I take a slow sip of my wine, letting it linger just long enough to steady the unease curling in my chest, and glance toward Chrissy, who is talking as if this is nothing more than a casual evening between neighbors.
Her voice floats easily through the space, light and unburdened, as though she isn’t sitting in another woman’s home, drinking from her glasses, occupying her life.
I have to resist the urge to react, to let even a flicker of what I’m thinking show on my face.
Chrissy is young. Too young for this house, too young for Phillip, too young to understand the kind of man she’s attached herself to.
There is a softness to her, something almost childlike, but beneath it I sense something else, something quieter and harder to define.
Not intelligence exactly, but instinct. Survival, maybe.
It makes it difficult to decide whether she’s a victim of this situation or a willing participant in it.
“So, McCullough,” she says, her tone bright as she leans forward slightly, “do you know the Millers down the street? They have the cutest dog, but Tara told me they’re thinking about selling. Can you imagine? This place is basically paradise.”
I offer a polite smile, careful to keep it measured. “It is beautiful here. Hard to imagine wanting to leave.”
“I know,” she laughs, swirling her wine like she’s seen it done before, like she’s practicing being the kind of woman who belongs in a house like this.
“I’ve never lived anywhere like this before.
Phillip’s been amazing, showing me around, introducing me to everyone. I feel like I’m living in a dream.”
A dream.
The word settles wrong.
I study her for a moment, wondering how easily someone can step into a life that isn’t theirs and make it look effortless. The house, the neighbors, the routines, all of it belonged to Whitney. And now Chrissy sits here, barefoot and smiling, as though it always belonged to her.
“You’re lucky,” I say, my tone softer than the words deserve. “Phillip’s been through a lot. Losing Whitney like that.”
Her expression falters, just briefly, before she smooths it over with something rehearsed, something that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Yeah. He doesn’t really talk about it.” She glances down at her glass, her voice lowering slightly.
“It’s so sad. The accident. I didn’t even know he was married until… after.”
I still, the glass hovering just short of my lips.
After.
I swallow the reaction that rises instinctively, forcing my expression to remain neutral. “That must have been… surprising.”
“It was,” she says quickly, nodding as if eager to justify it. “But he was just so kind. He said he needed someone to talk to, and I guess we just… connected.” She shrugs, her cheeks flushing faintly. “He started bringing me on work trips after he hired me, and things just sort of happened.”
Connected.
I let the word sit between us, heavy with everything she doesn’t understand. She says it like it was inevitable, like it unfolded naturally, but all I hear is timing. Opportunity. A man already moving on before the dust had even settled.
Her phone buzzes against the table, and she glances down, her expression shifting immediately. “Oh, I should take this,” she says, already half-standing. “It’s Phillip.”
“Of course,” I reply, keeping my tone light, uninterested.
She steps out onto the patio, the door left slightly open behind her, and the second she’s out of sight, the house seems to exhale.
I set my glass down carefully and rise, every movement measured. I don’t have long. Whatever I find, it has to be quick, quiet, and enough.
The living room is exactly as I remember it, immaculate in a way that borders on sterile. Nothing is out of place, nothing disturbed. Whitney kept it that way, but Phillip would have made sure it stayed that way. A controlled environment leaves very little room for mistakes.
Still, no one is perfect.
I move toward the bookshelf, running my fingers lightly along the spines, scanning for anything that feels out of alignment.
The titles are all hers, the same ones she read and reread, but something about it feels staged now, like a preserved version of her life rather than the real thing.
I test one book, sliding it forward, checking behind it.
Nothing.
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to stay focused.
The office.
My pulse ticks up as I cross the threshold, the air inside cooler, heavier. Phillip’s space is exactly what I expect, clean, controlled, deliberate. Papers stacked with precision. Nothing unnecessary. Nothing careless.
Except for the drawer.
It sits slightly open, just enough to catch my eye, and something tightens in my chest as I step closer and pull it the rest of the way out.
Inside is exactly what it should be. Supplies, receipts, documents that mean nothing at first glance.
But beneath them, tucked just out of sight, is a small black notebook.
I lift it, my fingers tightening slightly around the cover as I flip it open.
Dates. Names. Notes written in his precise, deliberate hand.
And then I see it.
Whitney.
My pulse spikes as I scan the line.
Whitney. Insurance policy. Double-check details. December third.
The date lodges itself in my mind immediately.
Just days before the explosion.
A chill moves through me, slow and deliberate, as I set the notebook aside and lower myself into his chair, the quiet hum of his laptop filling the space. I shouldn’t be here. I know that. But something deeper than logic is driving me now, something that refuses to let this go.
I open the laptop.
The screen wakes easily, no password, no hesitation, as if he never imagined anyone would look closely enough to find what matters. I move through the folders quickly, my fingers steady despite the tension coiling through me, until I reach the trash.
It’s instinct more than anything else that makes me click it.
And then I see them.
Two video files.
Dated the day before and the day of Whitney’s death.
My breath catches as I open the first.
The footage is grainy, pulled from the security cameras overlooking the back patio, but it’s clear enough.
Phillip and Whitney stand by the pool, their bodies angled toward each other, tension radiating even without sound.
He’s animated, sharp in his movements, while she stands still, arms crossed, her posture rigid with defiance.
I’ve seen her like that before.
Unyielding.
Certain.
Even when she shouldn’t be.
There’s something else there, though. Something small but unmistakable.
Fear.
It flickers across her face before she buries it, but I catch it, and once I see it, I can’t unsee it.
The footage glitches, and then his hand is at her throat.
My breath leaves me in a sharp, silent gasp as he forces her back against the poolhouse door, her body rigid, resisting, before the screen distorts again and cuts out entirely.
The silence that follows is deafening.
My hands tremble as I open the second video, my pulse pounding so hard it drowns out everything else.
This one is from the afternoon of the explosion.
Phillip exits the house alone.
Already dressed for the marina.
Already moving.
There’s no hesitation in him, no sign of panic or grief, just efficiency as he drags a large duffel bag behind him. It’s heavy. Too heavy. The way he carries it is wrong, strained in a way that doesn’t match the casual ease he projects in every other moment.
I stare at the screen, my mind racing ahead before I can stop it.
Whitney is small.
Small enough.
The thought lands fully, cold and complete.
Ice floods through me as I sit there, unable to look away, unable to deny what I’m seeing.
Was she already dead?
Was the explosion just a story?
I force myself to keep moving, to search for more, for anything else that might confirm it, but there’s nothing. No additional footage. No explanation. Just these two moments, suspended in time, telling a story Phillip never intended anyone to see.
I send the files to my phone, watching the transfer complete with a sharp, focused awareness that borders on fear. If he knows I have these, if he even suspects, I don’t know what he’ll do.
But I can’t leave them here.
When it’s done, I close everything exactly as I found it, wiping away any trace of my presence before stepping out of the office just as Chrissy’s footsteps approach.
I slip back into the living room, lowering myself into my seat, my expression composed by the time she reenters, all bright energy and easy smiles.
“Sorry,” she says, settling back in. “Phillip just wanted to check in.”
“Of course,” I reply, lifting my glass. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, nodding. “Everything’s fine. So where were we?”
I meet her gaze, my pulse still racing beneath the surface, my mind already moving three steps ahead.
“We were just talking about how lucky you are to be here.”
She laughs softly, pleased, unaware.
“I really am.”
I smile back, but there’s nothing warm in it anymore.
Because now I know.
And knowing changes everything.
By the time I leave, the night air feels colder against my skin, sharper, like something has shifted irrevocably into place. I walk home slowly, my thoughts moving faster than my steps, turning over every possibility, every implication of what I’ve just seen.
Whitney didn’t die in that explosion.
Not the way they said she did.
Phillip made sure of that long before anyone ever reached the water.
My grip tightens around my phone, the weight of it heavier now, charged with something dangerous and undeniable.
This isn’t suspicion anymore.
This is proof.
And if I’m right, if I’m even close to right, then I’m no longer just looking for answers.
I’m standing in the middle of something that could get me killed.
A quiet awareness settles in, steady and unshakable.
I don’t have a choice now.
I see this through.
For Whitney.
No matter what it costs.