“What about Abbie Gilbert’s supposed accident?” Jonah asked.
A shudder ran down my spine.
“Dead end,” Jayme said. “Late night hit and run with no witnesses. If you want to hire a PI to dig deeper, be my guest, but I don’t think you’re likely to find anything. And you need to remember, my job is to represent your family. Not prosecute the judge. There’s only so much I can do.”
“Understood.”
“So you don’t think we can prove the judge was involved in Abbie’s death?” Jonah asked.
I nervously tongued the notch in my lip. My stomach was starting to feel queasy.
“Not without something other than what we have,” Jayme said. “Tell me about the guy asking questions about Gibson. What was that about?”
Gibson cleared his throat. “He approached me in town. Said some weird stuff about small towns and gossip and not letting go of the past. He asked if everyone in town was being questioned again, or just me. Then he said something vaguely threatening about the world being dangerous and that some things are meant to stay buried.”
“Did he know who you were?”
“Yeah, knew my name, I didn’t give it to him. I’m also pretty sure he was armed.”
Hearing that again made me shiver. The thought of being face to face with Lee Williams again was terrifying. I’d had nightmares about him when I was little.
“Fucking fantastic,” Jayme muttered.
“Callie thinks she knows him,” Gibson said. “A guy by the name of Lee Williams. Worked for her father.”
“I’ve been doing some research,” Cassidy said, turning her laptop toward Gibson. “It’s a common name, but I found someone that might fit. Is this him?”
Gibson peered at her screen. “That’s him.”
Cassidy picked up her laptop and held it so I could see the screen. “Recognize him?”
My breath caught in my throat and the box in my mind rattled violently. It was an older photo, something that had been printed in a newspaper. But it was definitely him. “Yes. He worked for my father.”
“Forward that to me,” Jayme said.
“Doing it right now,” Cassidy said, moving her laptop back in front of her. “This guy is sketchy as all get-out. Started as a cop about twenty-five years ago, but left the force after an investigation. I can’t find much about it. If I didn’t know better, I’d wonder if there was a cover-up.”
“My father kept him out of jail,” I said. It felt like sorting through file folders. Old memories that had been tucked away. “I’m not sure what he did; I was too young to understand it all at the time. But I know he did something and got fired. He went to work for my dad after that. I must have been eleven, so that would have been about eighteen years ago.”
“That matches up with when he left the police force,” Cassidy said. “But I’ve done some searching and I can’t find anything that ties him to the judge.”
“There might not be any direct connections,” Jayme said. “We’ll need to look into the Kendalls’ lawyer and other people closely associated with the judge. We might be able to tie this guy to the judge through one of them. And we need that link. We could use it to show harassment, especially because he made threatening statements.”
“On it,” Cassidy said, already typing.
“Alleged-Callie, is there anything else you can give us on this guy?” Jayme asked. I didn’t sense any malice in her tone. She just wanted proof before she believed me.
“My father used to meet with him in secret. Our house in Virginia had an alarm system with video surveillance. When certain people came over, he’d turn it off. Lee Williams was one of them.” It was a clear memory. If the cameras were turned off, I knew to stay away. Hearing things got me into trouble.
“Make me a list of the rest of those cameras-off people,” Jayme said.
“Okay, sure. I’ll try.”
“And I take it you rode in Connie Bodine’s car,” Jayme said. “Alleged-Callie’s story explains the fingerprints?”
“The fingerprints, the sweater, and the New York speeding ticket,” Bowie said. “He helped her escape.”
“Abuse?” she asked.
“Yes,” Bowie said.
Cassidy reached over to squeeze my hand and Scarlett sidled up next to me. She put her arm around my shoulders and gave me a reassuring hug.
“Well,” Jayme said, and I imagined her crossing things off a list. “Since the forensic results on Connie’s car were inconclusive, we’re probably not going to find anything to tie her death to the judge, and…”
Jayme kept talking, but everything went fuzzy, especially her voice. I couldn’t hear a word because she’d just said tie her death to the judge. Connie Bodine’s death? I stared straight ahead, unseeing. I’d known Connie had passed away. But Jayme was saying my father might have been involved.
Oh god. Had my father arranged to have Gibson’s mother killed?
The room slowly came back into focus. Jayme was still on the phone. Scarlett stood next to me, gently rubbing my back, but her attention was on the call. Jameson and Leah Mae listened quietly, as did Jonah and Shelby. Devlin was taking notes. Cassidy typed and clicked, searching for evidence and answers. Bowie spoke again, gesturing with his hands, but I couldn’t make sense of what anyone was saying.
Gibson still paced, his path taking him toward the window and back again. He stopped and our eyes met.
I looked away, feeling like my chest was going to explode with grief and guilt. The pain of it smashed my lungs, making it hard to breathe. How many lives had been ruined? Jonah Bodine had risked everything to help a hurt little girl, and his wife might have been killed for it. Had four kids lost their mom because of me?
An entire town had spent over a decade holding onto hope for me, grieving me as a loss. And where had I been? At an off-grid farm in a hippie town, doing yoga and drinking wheat-grass smoothies. In recording studios, backstage at concerts, flying around the world, living in hotels.
“I think we’re done for now,” Jayme said. “But for god’s sake, get me her DNA.”
Conversations rose around me, everyone rehashing, planning, venting their frustrations. It all blew past me like a strong breeze. Jayme’s words replayed in my head, over and over. Tie her death to the judge. Why hadn’t anyone told me?
Someone took my hand and pulled me forward. Gibson. He spoke soft words I couldn’t hear through the blood roaring in my ears, but I let him lead me into the kitchen.
He touched my face, brushing my hair back. His thumb traced my bottom lip. “Callie, honey? Where you at? What’s wrong?”
I lifted my gaze to meet his. “He had your mom killed?”
His eyes went stormy, worry lines creasing his forehead. “We don’t know.”
“But it’s possible.”
As if reluctant, he nodded slowly. “The last place she went before she died was a hotel in Baltimore. Your mother was there that day, at a charity lunch. We can’t come up with another reason she would have gone out there, other than to see your mom. We always thought she’d been in an accident on the way home. But it might not have been an accident.”
I covered my mouth, my stomach roiling. “Oh my god.”
He put his hands on my arms. “If he did, it ain’t your fault.”
“How can you say that?” I asked. “How can you even look at me? I left, I abandoned everyone, and look at what happened.”
“Jesus, Callie, you were sixteen,” he said. “You didn’t abandon anyone. You got away so you could live.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about your mom?”
“Fuck, I don’t know. Because we don’t know for sure. Because there’s nothing we can do about it without proof.”
Connie Bodine. I remembered her calloused hands bandaging my wounds. Her authoritative voice as she and Jonah patched me up and tried to make me comfortable for the night.
“Gibson, I’m so sorry.” My voice broke and tears stung my eyes.
“Don
’t.” He cupped my face. “It’s not your fault.”
Taking a deep breath, I straightened my spine and sniffed back the tears. Looking into Gibson’s stormy blue eyes, a sense of resolve filled me, pushing away the guilt.
“I want to take them down, Gibs. We have to find a way.”
“We will.” His voice was hard. “We’re going to end this, and we’re going to do it together.”
25
MAYA
The Bodines had decided there was only one thing to do in the wake of this new crisis: eat our weight in comfort food and go drink at the Lookout.
I hopped out of Gibson’s truck, feeling a little sleepy after such a big meal. We’d gone home to check on Cash and play with him a little before heading back to Moonshine for dinner. I’d devoured most of a huge pepperoni roll and I had zero regrets.
Gibson walked around the front of his pickup, dressed in jeans and a dark t-shirt. He gave me a lazy smile, then draped his arm around my shoulders. Even though the lawsuit was stressing everyone out, Gibson had seemed relaxed since our meeting with his family. Those edges of his weren’t nearly so rough. I was starting to feel like I had my old Gibson back.
“Can I tell you something that’s a little bit silly?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“I used to daydream about my first time going to the Lookout.”
“You’ve never been here before, have you?”
I shook my head. “Nope. I was too young.”
We started for the door, his arm still around me. “What’s silly about that?”
“This was kinda my daydream,” I said, feeling a little sheepish. “Walking in here with you.”
“You thought about that back then?”
I reached up and twined my fingers through his. “Um, yeah. I might have had a bit of a crush on you.”
He paused and looked down at me, one corner of his mouth hooking in a grin. “You did?”
“Come on, Gibs. You were the sexy, intimidating older guy. And you can sing. Of course I had a little crush.”
“And all this time, I thought you’d liked how I played guitar.”
“Look who has a sense of humor all of a sudden,” I said, nudging him with my hip. “A crush wasn’t why I liked hanging out with you. I just indulged in a little daydream once in a while.”
“Imagine that. Me, making a teenage girl’s dream come true.” He grabbed the door handle.
I looked up at him. “I’m not a teenager anymore.”
His brow furrowed and heat smoldered in his eyes. With a low rumble in his throat, he looked me up and down, a predator sizing up his prey. My body responded to his fire, a tingle rushing straight to my core. For a heartbeat, I wondered if he’d turn us around, put me in his truck, and drive us back to his place.
Instead, he opened the door.
Noise spilled out into the warm night and I stepped into the once-forbidden realm of whiskey and moonshine. The lights were dim, the air just shy of stuffy. Most of the stools around the L-shaped bar were taken. A lot of the tables, too. There were pool tables, neon beer signs, and peanut shells on the floor. Country music mixed with the din of a dozen conversations.
I’d been in countless bars before, but never this bar. Never the bar in my girlish fantasies. I’d forgotten about those daydreams—boxed them up with all things Callie. And now, here I was. With Gibson Bodine’s arm around my shoulders.
I hadn’t planned for any of this. Coming back to Bootleg, reconnecting with my past. I certainly hadn’t planned to fall hard for Gibson Bodine.
But falling for him was exactly what was happening. There was no denying it. The moment he’d kissed me, my entire world had changed. Truth was, that kiss had been a long time coming. It wasn’t like he was a man I’d just met. We had a history, even if it hadn’t been romantic. A history that had already primed my heart for him.
We said we’d see where this led, and that felt right.
But there was a part of me that already knew exactly where this led—right here, to Bootleg Springs. It led to a tiny four-letter word. Something I’d never considered in any place I’d been in the last thirteen years. A word I’d thought didn’t apply to me.
Stay.
I wasn’t ready to make a decision tonight. Or even soon. I felt like we were on the brink of a confrontation that could alter the course of a lot of people’s lives. I was determined, come hell or high water, to find a way to bring my father to justice. Not just for what he’d done to me, but for all the people he’d hurt over the years.
That was a task so formidable, it was almost hard to see past it. To imagine a time when I wouldn’t live in the shadow of fear. When I could reconcile the two halves of myself and be one person, in private and in public. When I could be Callie again.
That time would come. And when it did, where would I go? Back to a life on the road? Living out of a couple of suitcases, in hotels and temporary apartments? Dipping into people’s lives for a short time, only to leave again when I thought they were strong enough to stand on their own? Never staying in one place?
No. I wasn’t about to call Oliver and tell him I was making a change—it was too soon for that—but I already knew that life would never be enough. I wanted home. I wanted family and friends. A place to belong. And for the first time since my teens, it seemed like that life was within my reach.
Had I found all that here in Bootleg Springs, with the sometimes surly and so damn sexy Gibson Bodine? I was almost afraid to hope that I had.
We’d see where this led. We had a long road to travel before we were in the clear.
Scarlett and Cassidy were playing a game of pool with Devlin and Bowie. At a glance, it looked like girls against boys. Jameson and Leah Mae were at a small table tucked in a corner nearby. George stood by the pool tables, watching with a beer dangling from his big hand, while June sat on a stool next to him, her nose in a book.
Jonah had Shelby in his arms, swaying to a slow song. They were one of only two couples dancing, but they didn’t seem to mind. Or notice. I did a double take when I realized one member of the second couple was Jenny. She and Jimmy Bob Prosser looked adorably cozy. He had one of her hands tucked against his chest and she smiled up at him.
Gibson led me to a table on the outskirts of the bar, as if he’d scanned the room and chosen the least crowded spot. He probably had.
“You want a drink?” he asked.
“Apple pie moonshine.”
“Part of the daydream?” he asked.
I nodded. “I’ve never had it before.”
He scowled. “What kind of Bootleg girl are you? We’re fixing that.”
I waited at our table while Gibson went to the bar. The bartender—Nicolette, if I wasn’t mistaken—was a petite brunette with her hair in a ponytail and a no-nonsense look about her. Gibson rested an elbow on the bar and leaned across to give her our orders. Her eyes flicked to me for a few seconds, then back again, but she was too far away for me to read anything in her expression.
A woman whose face seemed familiar came over to my table. She was slim, maybe in her fifties, wearing a plaid flannel shirt, cowboy boots, and a friendly smile.
“Evenin’,” she said, raising a half-full mason jar. “Just wanted to pop on over and say hi. I’m Fanny Sue.”
Of course, Fanny Sue Tomaschek. I remembered her from before. “Nice to meet you. I’m Maya.”
Her eyes tracked my face, just long enough for me to notice, but not quite long enough to be rude. And there was something in her expression. A wistfulness, maybe. “I hear you work for a big record company.”
“I do. Attalon Records. I’m a producer.”
“Wow, ain’t that something else,” she said. “That make you happy?”
I blinked in surprise. I’d expected a question about why I was in Bootleg, or maybe how I’d met Gibson. “Oh—well, yeah, it does.”
Her smile grew. “That’s wonderful to hear. So good to see you, Maya. I mean meet you.”
; I watched her walk away, my lips parted, my heart suddenly pounding. Oh my god, did she know?
Gibson came back with our drinks. He slid a mason jar with an inch or so of amber liquid toward me and sat on the other stool.
“You all right?” he asked.
I leaned across the table and lowered my voice. “Fanny Sue Tomaschek just came over and said hello. I think she might know.”
His expression went stony, worry lines etching into his forehead. “You sure?”
“Not positive, but she said it was good to see me, then corrected herself to meet me.”
“She didn’t come out and say it? Use your name?”
I shook my head. “No. Isn’t she a deputy? Did Sheriff Tucker tell the department?”
“I don’t think so. Not yet. But Fanny Sue’s sharp. If anyone in this town was going to figure it out, it’d be her.” He looked in her direction for a second. “I don’t think we need to worry. She’s one of the good guys, anyway.”
With a deep breath, I released the tension in my shoulders. Gibson was probably right. There didn’t seem to be any reason to panic.
I took a sip of my drink, my first taste of real Bootleg Springs moonshine. It tasted exactly like apple pie—tart with a bit of cinnamon. It had a nice bite to it, warming my throat as it went down.
“Wow.” I put the mason jar down. “This is dangerous.”
“Yeah, you gotta sip it slow.”
“What are you drinking?” I gestured to his jar.
“Just water. I don’t drink.”
That was something I didn’t know. Had alcohol been a problem for him, or was it simply a matter of taste? “Can I ask if there’s a reason?”
He looked away and for a second, I wondered if I shouldn’t have asked.
“Dad drank. So I don’t.”
“I can understand that. I don’t need to, if it makes you uncomfortable.”
“Naw,” he said, meeting my eyes again. “If it bothered me to watch people get shitfaced, I’d have to move to another town.”
I tipped my mason jar, looking at its contents. “Well, I don’t plan on getting shitfaced. Although I have a feeling this stuff would make it easy.”
Highball Rush: Bootleg Springs Book 6 Page 19