Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
I’m sitting at our usual table at La Madeleine, the five of us arranged on the terrace in the soft spill of afternoon light, martinis sweating against delicate stems while untouched pastries sit between us like props we no longer care to admire.
The café hums with its usual rhythm, cutlery clinking, voices rising and falling in easy conversation, but our table feels sealed off from it, suspended in something quieter, heavier.
The only thing missing is Whitney. The absence settles over us without being named, an unspoken gap that shifts the air just enough to make everything feel slightly off.
“I still can’t believe it,” Tara says, shaking her head as she brings her glass to her lips, though she doesn’t drink. “The Seminoles. Right here in our neighborhood. It was terrifying.”
Caroline leans forward immediately, her voice lowering as if the story demands intimacy. “Did you see the leader? The one with the sunglasses? He was… intense. I thought Phillip was going to pass out right there on the lawn.”
Julia nods, her brow drawn tight with concern. “What do you think they want from him? That didn’t look like a warning. That looked like something worse.”
I take a slow sip of my drink, letting the burn of the gin settle at the back of my throat, though it does nothing to steady the unease coiling inside me.
The image is still vivid, the line of bikes, the sound of engines reverberating through the street, the way Phillip stood there, smaller somehow, diminished in a way I’ve never seen before.
It felt wrong, like something that had slipped into our world without permission, something that didn’t belong among manicured lawns and curated lives.
Stephanie exhales, her voice practical but edged with strain. “Phillip has been through enough. First Whitney, and now this. It’s just… it’s too much for one person.”
Whitney.
Her name moves through the space between us and settles, quiet and heavy.
I feel it the same way I always do, a sharp pull beneath my ribs, grief braided tightly with something darker, something that refuses to soften with time.
I wrap my fingers more firmly around the stem of my glass, forcing my expression to remain composed.
Julia’s gaze shifts to me, searching. “McCullough, you’re right next door. Have you noticed anything strange? Anything that might explain why they showed up like that?”
I shake my head, the motion smooth, controlled.
“No. Nothing out of the ordinary.” The lie comes easily, almost too easily, slipping into place before I have to think about it.
I can’t tell them what I know, what I believe.
I can’t tell them that the man they’re pitying is the same man I’m certain killed my best friend.
Caroline leans back, exhaling slowly. “This whole thing is making me uneasy. What if they come back? What if next time they don’t just stand there and stare him down?”
A quiet ripple of agreement moves through the table.
I can see it in their faces, the discomfort, the fear beginning to take root beneath the surface of their perfectly controlled lives.
To them, the Seminoles are a threat, something external and dangerous.
To me, they are something else entirely. A possibility. A reckoning.
“Maybe we should talk to the HOA,” Tara says, her voice tightening with resolve. “Increase security or something. A gate, a guard. This is exactly the kind of thing that shouldn’t be happening here.”
Stephanie nods quickly. “We pay too much to live here to feel unsafe.”
I remain quiet, letting their voices move around me, my thoughts drifting elsewhere.
To Maverick. To the truth I’ve kept buried beneath careful silence.
They would never understand what the club actually is, not beyond the surface, not beyond the easy label of something criminal and crude.
They would never understand the kind of loyalty that binds men like my brother to something like that, or the reasons he chose it in the first place.
“McCullough?” Caroline’s voice pulls me back. “Are you okay? You’ve gone quiet.”
I lift my gaze and offer a small, practiced smile. “I’m fine. Just still shaken from yesterday.”
Julia reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, her touch warm, grounding. “We all are. And you’ve had the worst of it, losing Whitney like that. If you need anything…”
I nod, returning the pressure of her hand even though the words feel hollow. “I know. Thank you.”
The conversation shifts after that, easing into safer territory, vacations, new boutiques, the opening of a restaurant downtown that everyone insists we have to try.
The laughter returns, lighter this time, but I don’t follow it.
My thoughts keep circling back, threading together details that refuse to stay separate. Phillip. The Seminoles. Whitney.
Pieces of something I don’t yet understand.
“Has anyone heard from Phillip today?” Tara asks suddenly, drawing the focus back where it belongs.
Caroline shakes her head. “No. I haven’t seen him at all. I imagine he’s keeping a low profile after yesterday.”
“Can you blame him?” Stephanie adds. “If a motorcycle club showed up at my front door, I’d disappear too.”
Julia leans forward again, curiosity brightening her expression. “Do you think we should check on him? Just to make sure he’s alright?”
The suggestion lands wrong, something cold slipping down my spine at the thought of facing him now, of standing close enough to see his expression, to hear his voice. I swallow, steadying myself.
“Maybe it’s better to give him space,” I say carefully. “He’s been through a lot.”
They nod, accepting it, letting it go.
But I don’t.
Because I know this isn’t over. Men like that don’t simply absorb something like yesterday and move on. And the Seminoles don’t make appearances without purpose.
By the time we leave, the air feels heavier than when we arrived, the sunlight sharper, almost intrusive.
I barely register the drive home. By the time I step out of the car, something inside me has already shifted, the slow burn of anger rising to the surface, fed by everything I’ve seen, everything I know.
I don’t think. I move.
The lawn stretches between our houses, perfectly trimmed, immaculate in a way that suddenly feels obscene.
My bare feet hit the grass harder than necessary as I cross it, my pulse pounding in my ears, heat rising through my chest until it feels like it might split me open. I can’t hold it in anymore. I won’t.
His door comes into view, solid and unremarkable, just another entrance to a life that should have been ordinary.
I pound on it.
The sound echoes, sharp and final, cutting through the quiet like a fracture. My hands tremble, my vision narrowing, everything inside me condensing into one singular, undeniable truth.
He opens the door.
Phillip stands there like nothing has happened, dressed casually, composed, the picture of a man untouched by the chaos surrounding him. The normalcy of it is what pushes me over the edge, something in me snapping cleanly into place.
“You killed her,” I say, the words leaving me before I can shape them into anything softer. “I know you did. I know you killed Whitney.”
For a split second, something flickers across his face. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Then it’s gone, replaced by cold dismissal.
“This again?” he says flatly, irritation bleeding into his tone. “You’re insane. Get off my property.”
I step closer, closing the distance between us. “Don’t you dare dismiss me. I know what you did, and I’m not going to let you walk away from it.”
He exhales sharply, shaking his head as if I’ve become an inconvenience. “You’ve lost it, McCullough. Seriously. Leave before I call the police.”
But I don’t move. I can’t. The anger is too loud now, drowning out everything else, every rational thought reduced to noise beneath the need to make him feel even a fraction of what I feel.
“You think you’re untouchable,” I say, my voice rising despite myself. “But I see you. I see exactly what you are. A coward. A liar. A murderer.”
His jaw tightens, but I don’t stop.
“If I could, I’d kill you myself,” I say, the words low, deliberate, pulled from somewhere deeper than I should be willing to go. “If I thought I could get away with it, I’d do it right here.”
Something shifts in his expression again, something real this time.
And then arms wrap around me.
“McCullough, stop.” Bennett’s voice cuts through the haze, urgent, strained, as he pulls me back, anchoring me before I can take another step.
I struggle against him, still locked onto Phillip, still burning. Phillip folds his arms, a slow, infuriating smirk settling onto his face as Bennett drags me away.
“You’d better keep your crazy, drunk wife under control,” he says coolly. “Next time, I won’t be so patient.”
I fight against Bennett’s grip, my voice breaking as I shout, “You won’t get away with this!”
Phillip only laughs, the sound hollow and sharp, before stepping back inside and slamming the door.
The finality of it echoes.
Bennett’s grip tightens briefly before softening as he turns me toward the house. “You have to calm down,” he says, quieter now, his voice threaded with concern. “You can’t do that. Not without proof.”
“He killed her,” I say, the words breaking apart as they leave me. “He killed Whitney, and he’s just… living.”
“I know,” Bennett says, pulling me closer. “I know. But this isn’t how we handle it.”
The anger begins to drain, replaced by something heavier, something colder. The realization settles slowly, pressing in from all sides. I gave him exactly what he needed. A reason to discredit me. To paint me as unstable.
I nod, though it feels hollow, the adrenaline already slipping away, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
Back inside, the house feels different. Smaller.
Less certain. I barely make it through the door before the tears come, sharp and unrelenting, grief and fury collapsing into something I can’t hold back anymore.
Bennett wraps his arms around me, murmuring something soft, steady, but I barely hear him.
All I can think about is how close I came.
And how much I still want to finish it.
I pull away eventually, forcing myself to breathe, to think, to regain some semblance of control. This isn’t over. It can’t be. But if I’m going to take him down, I have to do it right.
Smarter.
Quieter.
I reach for my phone, my fingers hovering for a moment before I make the decision.
Maverick.
The name sits there, waiting.
I press call.
He answers on the second ring. “Hey, sis. What’s up?”
I swallow, steadying myself. “I need to talk to you. About the Seminoles. Can we meet?”
There’s a brief pause, then his tone shifts, sharper, more alert. “Yeah. Taco truck. One hour.”
“I’ll be there.”
The drive feels longer than it should, my thoughts racing ahead of me, turning possibilities over and over until they begin to blur. By the time I pull into the lot, my nerves are already stretched thin.
Maverick is waiting at a picnic table, his vest unmistakable, marking him as something the rest of this town would never understand. He looks up as I approach, concern flickering in his eyes.
“Mac,” he says, studying me. “What’s going on?”
I sit across from him, leaning forward before I can second-guess myself. “Phillip. The club showed up at his house yesterday. What aren’t you telling me?”
His expression hardens slightly, his posture shifting as he leans back. “He owes money. I told you that. Why are you pushing this?”
“Because he killed her,” I say, the words quieter now but no less certain. “And I need to know everything. Anything you’ve seen, anything you’ve heard. I don’t care how small it is.”
He watches me for a long moment, then exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing just enough. “Alright. But this doesn’t leave this table. You understand?”
“I do.”
“Butch threatened to bring in the Feds,” he says finally. “If Phillip doesn’t pay up.”
The words land hard. “The insurance company is already investigating him,” I say, more to myself than to him. “If that happens…”
Maverick shrugs. “That’s all I know.”
I hesitate, then push further. “Were you there yesterday?”
He shakes his head. “No. Butch knows about you. Didn’t want to complicate things.”
A chill moves through me. “Would they actually involve the Feds?”
“I’ve never seen it,” he admits. “Not for something like this.”
I nod slowly, then force the next question past my lips. “Bennett says they handle things themselves. Vigilante-style.”
Maverick doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t have to.
The look in his eyes is enough.
Fear threads through me, sharp and immediate. “Mav,” I say quietly, holding his gaze. “Am I in danger?”
He hesitates, just long enough to confirm what I already know.
And in that silence, everything shifts.