by Lucy Score
“That’s bullshit,” Jonah argued.
“He took her off the investigation, telling her he can’t trust her objectivity.”
“I take it Scarlett doesn’t know since the detective is still among the living?” Devlin asked.
“Let’s go kick his ass,” Gibson suggested.
“Been awhile since I punched anyone in the face,” Jameson mused.
My brothers were mostly kidding.
“I don’t know what to do. If I keep forcing the idea of dating, I’m basically asking her to give up her career for me.”
“And why should she trust you to do that?” Jonah filled in.
“Exactly.” I nodded into my beer. “I’m torn in two. I don’t want to put her in some situation where she might lose her job. But I’ve already wasted a good long time. If we keep waiting on the right opportunity, it might never come.”
“Connelly’s not gonna be here forever,” Devlin pointed out. “Sooner or later the case will either break or go cold again.”
I sat there with that. What would it do to me and Cass if the case broke and Jonah Bodine, Sr. was found responsible for Callie’s disappearance? I could feel my brothers thinking along the same lines.
“When are you gettin’ Leah Mae a ring?” I asked Jameson, trying to lighten the mood. “Maybe if I got one for Cass she’d finally give me the time of day.”
“Christ. Bow. You don’t propose to a woman to get her to like you,” Gibson pointed out.
“Like you would know, Mr. Nothing More Serious Than a Quick Roll After Closing Time.”
Gibson leveled me with a look. “I don’t tell you shitheads everything.”
We oohed and ahhed him good-naturedly.
“Alls I’m sayin’ is there are ways to get a girl to notice you.”
“I’ve tried every other thing under the sun. I’ve tried gifts. I’ve tried bein’ nice. I bailed her out of jail. Hell, I even tried some friendly blackmail, thinkin’ it would at least get a rise out of her. She says she needs time to think about it.”
“Sounds like it’s time to call in the big guns,” Gibson said. My permanently single brother was suddenly the Oprah of relationships.
“Big guns?” Jonah asked cautiously.
“Not like gun guns. Psychological warfare,” Jameson explained.
“When is she most vulnerable?” Gibson asked.
A slow grin stretched across my face. “When I’m kissin’ her.”
“Then keep kissin’ her. Every opportunity you get. Reach out and touch her every couple of minutes.” Gibson demonstrated by stroking his arm down Devlin’s.
“Dating here is very different than where I’m from,” Devlin observed, taking a big swallow of beer. “In Annapolis, you ask a woman out, take her to dinner, or an event. Talk about whether you’re compatible.”
“And that worked so well for you with Johanna,” Jonah said dryly.
Johanna was Devlin’s ex-wife who’d set her sights on higher aspirations and cheated her way out of their marriage. Scarlett had nearly come to blows with the woman and her string of pearls when she’d strolled into town demanding a second chance.
Devlin gave a shudder. “Okay, your way is definitely better. So how do we get Bowie and Cassidy together without costing her her job?”
“I’m all ears.”
Everyone shut up and drank, wheels turning.
“Cass wants to end up like her parents. Meanwhile, I can’t think of anything worse than ending up like ours,” I said, breaking the silence.
“You ever miss Mom?” Jameson asked quietly.
“Sometimes. Like when the leaves start changing. Remember how much she loved fall? She’d be in a good mood for as long as the leaves were changing.”
“Apple cider and hot dogs over the campfire for dinner,” Gibson said. I didn’t know my brother had any good memories of our childhood.
“Remember that time that Dad built the slingshot and we spent a whole weekend chucking pumpkins into the lake?” I asked.
“It wasn’t all bad,” Jameson said.
“It should have been a hell of a lot better,” Gibson said bitterly.
Sensing the turn in the mood, Jonah piped up. “Hey, what if you convinced Cass to secretly date you?”
I frowned. “What?”
“If no one knows you two are seeing each other then she can’t get canned for seeing you, can she?” he spelled it out.
“Jonah, you’ve been here a few months. How in the hell is anyone supposed to keep any secret ‘round here?” Jameson asked.
“Think about it, they already practically live together,” Jonah argued.
“And if you were hellbent on the dinner and a movie crap you could take her out of town,” Gibson added, stroking a hand over his chin.
“Isn’t sneaking around kind of high school?” I asked. “And I want more.”
“Do you love the girl?” Gibson asked.
I nodded.
“Are you stupid in love with the girl?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I was, and it felt damn good to say it.
“Then get her to say yes.”
41
Cassidy
“Heard you pulled the short straw earlier this week,” Fanny Sue grinned when I walked into the station.
I rolled my eyes to the heavens. “I swear every time Misty Lynn does somethin’ stupid, Rhett Ginsler runs out and tries to top her.”
Fanny Sue flipped open the file. “Driving a lawn mower under the influence,” she recited from my report. Rumor had it Misty Lynn had been caught making eyes at Freddy Sleeth over a round of beer pong, and Rhett had taken offense. “That’s a new one.”
“Did you confiscate the mower?” Bex asked, filling her bottle from the water cooler.
“I paid Rhett’s 9-year-old nephew to drive it home and park it in the garage.”
“Shoulda kept it. We could have put a plow on it and used it for the sidewalks,” Fanny Sue quipped.
“Thought about it but it’s one of those zero turn ones. No place for a plow.”
“Dang it.”
“Maybe Rhett should hop back on and do a 180 in the opposite direction of Misty Lynn,” Bex suggested.
“Amen to that sister.” I raised my coffee cup in her direction.
“Ladies, perhaps if you were less concerned about the reputation of your neighbors and more worried about enforcing the law, maybe you wouldn’t have an entire town disrespecting your department.” Connelly’s voice was ice cold with an extra shot of disapproval.
He was standing in front of the coffee pot, a thick stack of files under one arm. I wondered if he’d make me scan them.
Fanny Sue hitched up her duty belt and gave him a cool stare. “I think we’re doing just fine in Bootleg. But thanks for the helpful observation.”
Oh, he didn’t like that one bit.
“You have a sheriff who’s run unopposed in the last four elections who hired his daughter to one of the only full-time deputy positions in the department. And when she’s not going easy on townsfolk or cooking up fake fines for visitors to this town, she spends her time gossiping. You tell me if that’s ‘doin’ just fine.’”
Fanny Sue looked like she was about to climb over her desk and give him what for.
Bex looked like she couldn’t decide if she wanted Fanny Sue to clock him or bite her tongue. I was praying hard for option number two. Because I wanted the first shot at him.
Deciding he’d spread enough of his douchebaggery, Connelly turned his back on us and walked into the conference room.
I was hot on his heels.
I closed the door firmly behind me, cutting off Bex’s quiet “Ohhhhhh, shit.”
“If you have a problem with my job performance, I’d appreciate it if you’d share it privately with me, sir.” I put some stank on the word sir. I may be young and female and the sheriff’s daughter, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t earned my place in this department.
He sat, crossing his arms and st
udying me without bothering to disguise his disgust. “You are everything that’s wrong with these small-town police departments. You don’t deserve to be here. You haven’t earned a place here. You’re underqualified, inexperienced, and you’re more interested in your neighbors’ business than whether they’re on the wrong side of the law.”
“What exactly am I doing wrong in your opinion, sir?” This guy had a beef with me, and I was starting to think it went deeper than the fact that I happened to be in possession of lady parts.
“The only reason you’re here is because of your DNA,” he snapped. “You’re involved with the family of a murder suspect. You cut personal friends breaks and then crack down on unsuspecting visitors because you’re riding some small-time, pathetic power trip.”
Connelly had no idea how lucky he was that I’d spent years learning to bury my feelings deep. There was something gratifying about remaining icy calm when someone else was losing their shit. Because if I weren’t so busy being the supreme goddess of keeping my cool right now, this guy would have my taser contacts attached to his balls.
“I proudly serve this town the best I can. If you have an issue with my performance perhaps you should take it up with my boss.”
“You mean, your daddy,” Connelly corrected me. “If it were up to you and your daddy I wouldn’t even be pursuing Jonah Bodine as a suspect.”
“I’m not involved in the investigation,” I pointed out. I wanted to ask him if he’d even talked to the Kendalls about the photos. But I was mad, not stupid. “I wasn’t aware that Callie’s disappearance was ruled a homicide.” Okay. Maybe I was a little stupid. It hadn’t officially been ruled a homicide. A bloody sweater wasn’t a body or a murder weapon.
Connelly took offense. “Mark my words, deputy. Someone in this town killed that girl and your father let them get away with it. Now, you’re here throwing up smoke screens trying to protect the Bodines. If the trail goes cold this time, it’s on your head. Not mine.”
I leaned over the conference table, putting my fingertips on it. “I don’t know where you’re from, but around here we like to believe that everyone is innocent until proven guilty and that the sins of the father don’t automatically get handed down to the next generation.”
He rose from his chair and mirrored my stance. “Think about how old those Bodine boys were when she disappeared. What’s to say they didn’t know what their father was up to? Or what’s to say it wasn’t one of them? Any one of them could have come across her on her way home that night. Maybe their father didn’t do it. Maybe his alibi was real. Maybe it was one of those boys that decided to have a little fun with a pretty girl. You should think real hard about how well you think you know them. ‘Cause to me, the apple usually doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
The conference room door opened. My dad was dressed in what I thought of as his civilian uniform of jeans and flannel with a ballcap. It was his day off. Through the window, I saw Bex wringing her hands near the water cooler and Fanny Sue pretending to be engrossed in the screen saver on her monitor.
“There a problem?” my father asked, cool as a bucket of ice water.
Connelly shot me a smug look. Look whose daddy came to bail her out.
“No, sir,” I said.
I gave Connelly a curt nod and walked out of the conference room.
I wanted to punch something. Something like Connelly’s face. But I wouldn’t give that turd in the punchbowl the satisfaction of seeing me in a temper. Nope. I was cold as the iceberg that sunk the Titanic. He’d accused me of being a nepotistic moron incapable of doing her job and insinuated that any one of the Bodines could have made Callie disappear.
What was I supposed to do? Report him to my supervisor? I’d just be proving his point.
The man made it clear. He was going to take great pleasure in ruining my career.
I needed to steer very clear of Bowie.
42
Cassidy
“Knock knock,” I called, elbowing my way through my parents’ front door. I was lugging a slow cooker full of creamed corn. All I wanted tonight was some good food and some relaxing time with my family so I could forget about the clusterfuck that was my life.
My father and I had gradually made a tentative peace. In all honesty, I only had so much anger to go around. And right now, Connelly was sucking it all up quicker than I could manufacture it.
“Back here,” my mother called from the kitchen.
Every other weekend we gathered around my parent’s table for a home-cooked meal and catch up conversation. I wasn’t keen on catching anyone up on my current status. I didn’t want to tell Mom and June about my problems at work. I sure as hell couldn’t tell Dad about the night of debauchery earlier this week that ended with his wife and two daughters behind bars. And there was no way I’d talk to any of them about Bowie. The less I said that man’s name, the better. I didn’t need any connections between me and him or else Connelly would have my badge.
I would talk about my cats, I decided. Cats were cute. Funny. A safe topic of conversation.
The kitchen smelled like pot roast and horseradish, and my stomach growled in anticipation.
June was frowning down at the carrots she was dicing with surgical precision, and my mother was pouring wine. “Want a glass?” she offered.
My stomach lurched, this week’s hangover still fresh in my memory. “No, thanks. I’m still—”
Dad strolled into the kitchen and pressed a kiss to my mom’s cheek. “Smells good in here,” he said, popping the top on a beer and grabbing the spaghetti squash halves out of the refrigerator. My father’s contribution to the dinner table was always something grilled. Burgers. Portobellos. Vegetables.
He was an expert outdoor cooker. But put him in the kitchen and he couldn’t work the can opener.
“Y’all want to set the table?” Mom asked, shoving plates at me and utensils at June.
“I’m busy dicing,” June said.
“You gave me an extra,” I told Mom.
“Hmm?” Mom hummed, looking extra innocent. “Oh, we have another guest coming.”
Ugh. I’d been looking forward to family time. You know, burp after the meal, make inappropriate jokes about cutting cheese family time. I couldn’t do that around non-family.
In a snit, I doled out the plates around the lace-covered table. It must be some town bigwig to rate an actual tablecloth, I noted. That made me even more mad at the mystery guest. I must have one bad case of the karma the way things were going this week.
The doorbell rang.
“Cass, can you get that?” Mom called.
Reluctantly, I headed to the front door, masking my disappointment with a polite expression. Until I realized who was on the other side.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” I hissed.
Bowie peered at me over an ostentatious bouquet of dahlias—my mother’s favorite. “I was invited,” he said, stepping across the threshold and dropping a kiss on my cheek as if it were the most normal thing in the word.
I stood there staring at the empty doorway wondering what I’d done in a past life that had been so terrible.
“Bowie!” My mom squealed. “Oh, you shouldn’t have.”
“Good to see you, son,” Dad said, poking his head in from the back deck.
“Why is he here?” June asked, coming up behind me with a stack of cloth napkins.
“Good question.”
Bowie was here to ruin my life. With my parents’ blessing.
“I think you’re so sweet to give poor Johnny Johnson the responsibility,” my traitor mother was cooing. “I mean, that boy just can’t catch a break in life.”
I pushed a potato around my plate and pretended not to listen.
“Cassidy, don’t you think Bowie does a great job at the school?” Mom prodded.
I stabbed the potato with my fork. “Yeah. Great.”
“How’s the baseball team shapin’ up for next season?” my dad asked him.
Bowie swallowed his bite of pot roast. “Real good. Should see the semi-finals,” he predicted. “Mrs. Tucker, this roast is delicious.”
I made a gagging noise. I couldn’t help it. My parents had set me up. Now, I had to add my mother to the Pissed Off At list. Was it too much to ask for people to stop pissing me off all the time?
Bowie reached over and stroked the base of my neck. I dropped my fork with a clatter at his touch.
“Can I go watch SportsCenter?” June asked, bored and annoyed with the social requirements of the evening.
“No,” Mom the Traitor said firmly. “Don’t you want to join in the conversation?”
June stuck her chin out like she was going to throw a hissy fit and then relented. My sister never threw hissy fits. “Fine. Bowie, you had an impressive batting average in high school and you excelled at pitching.” She sounded like a robot trying to give a compliment. I was going to give that robot a talking-to about sisterly loyalty.
“Thanks, Juney,” Bowie said, hiding his smile.
“Now, can I go watch TV?” June asked.
“Bowie, would you like another beer?” my dad asked, getting up from the table. My father who damn well knew what Connelly was threatening me with had willingly brought this man to my table. Okay, his table. But I was sitting at it.
“No, sir. One’s good enough for me,” Bowie said.
“One’s good enough for me,” I mimicked under my breath. He was always such a damn Boy Scout.
“What’s that, Cass?” Bowie asked sweetly.
“Can I talk to you outside?” I snapped.
“Me?” June asked. “It’s cold. And I’d rather watch TV.”
“Not you. You,” I said, drilling a finger into Bowie’s shoulder.
I didn’t wait to see if he’d follow. I pushed my way outside onto the deck off the kitchen. It was dark now and cold, but my seething anger kept me warm.
“Cass, honey, you’re gonna freeze to death out here,” Bowie said, sliding the door closed behind him.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.