Page 109 of Bourbon and Secrets

I pinch the skin above her elbow.

“Ow,” she yells out. “Fuck a duck, Faye.”

I shrug a shoulder. “Feels real to me.” I take a grounding breath and hold the door handle. Before I pull, I ask, “Ready?”

She nods. And when we walk into the small shop, the bell on the door that clamors against the glass reminds me of Hooch’s. The snow that dusted the path we took from the car to the door is stuck to my shoes, but I stomp them off quickly. The woman behind the counter gives us both a kind smile. “You can sit anywhere you’d like, ladies.”

But as I look down the length of the room, my eyes stop on the only other person in the place. A woman at the end of the bar with a cup of tea and a pastry, who’s looking right back at us like the world just paused and somehow her eyes are seeing something she can’t believe. My chest hollows out and then expands as if someone just passed air into my lungs.

She stands, and with watery eyes, says, “When Bea texted, I didn’t think—” Her hand flies over her mouth as her eyes pinch closed. But it’s Maggie who doesn’t waste any more seconds and limps over to her faster than I thought she would be able to move right now.

Their arms fly around the other, and the only sounds are whimpering cries mixed with my mother’s calm voice that I hadn’t realized how much I missed hearing. “My darling girls.” Her eyes close as she whispers, “What are you doing here?”

She leans back and holds Maggie’s arms out. “Just look at you, Maggie.” Worrying her lips, she looks past my sister to me. My mother is still so beautiful. Small signs that time hasn’t stood still—her wavy, wheat-colored hair is streaked with more silver than blonde and cropped into a short bob now. She wears a pair of worn jeans, cowgirl boots, and a tied off Carly Simon tour t-shirt. Her long cardigan sweater looks hand-knitted and warm enough for what’s left of winter.

“Mom...” is the only thing I can get out before I wrap my arms around her. She smells just like I remember—lavender and sugar.She smells like home.

“Oh, Faye, honey.” Her voice breaks when she says, “My beautiful girl. My protector.” She pulls back to look at me. “I’m so sorry. Oh, I messed up so horribly.” Pausing, she bites back the sob I know she’s holding in. “I just let you clean up a mess that you had no business being near. I’m so sorry.”

I shake my head. “I know,” I tell her through my own tears.

She looks around us toward the waitress. “Annie, can you bring these girls some coffee?”

We move into a booth, and she smiles at the waitress, waiting for her to leave before we say anything more. “Thanks, Annie.” Reaching for a hand from both Maggie and me, she then says, “Tell me everything.”

Maggie takes the lead on telling her about the night that Tullis died. How Maggie saw everything. How she watched Waz murder his own brother, threaten her, and how I assumed Mom had killed him.

“There was never a time to tell you. And what good would it have done? There was no way I could have known what was coming,” Maggie says. She glances at me before she continues with what Griz told us. “That Waz continued to threaten you.” I squeeze Maggie’s hand.

“I thought if I took myself out of the equation, then you both would be safe. I didn’t want to leave,” Mom says, looking up.

Maggie wipes under each eye. “We had a memorial for you.”

I chime in, “The whole town celebrated you, Mom. All the girls from your book club. Everyone who knew you missed you.”

“And then I found my own brand of coping,” Maggie says. “A lot of drinking and gambling. But it served two purposes.” She glances at me. “My vices turned into exactly what I needed to get into Finch & King’s radar.”

Our mother looks at me quizzically, and then back to Maggie. “Please tell me you didn’t get involved.”

“She did more than just get involved, Mom.” We spend the next handful of minutes talking about exactly what brought Maggie and me here. But that, of course, led to even more questions.

So we sit together in the middle-of-nowhere diner for most of the morning while Maggie and I share every detail, from my involvement with Blackstone to the carefully orchestrated system that Maggie had been able to deliver to the FBI. Between the surveillance I’d pulled, the delivery of drugs via private auction, the long money trail, fixed off-track betting, and the suspicious deaths of horses, trainers, and jockeys, all of it built a case pointing directly at Finch & King.

Our mom’s eyes close when she asks, “Are they looking for you? Those men have reach. Waz is the psychopath. He will keep coming after you. But just because Wheeler doesn’t get his hands dirty doesn’t mean he forgets anything. He hires people?—”

But I cut her off. “Mom, Waz is dead.”

She searches our faces, eyes wide when she asks, “How?”

“Last night. Lincoln was there,” I answer. “He got there just in time.”

“Lincoln Foxx? Griz’s grandson? What was he doing...”

Maggie props her elbows on the table and her chin on her palms. “Oh yeah, Mom. That’s the best part. Faye went ahead and fell in love with him while all of this was happening.”

With a watery laugh, she says, “Something about those Foxx boys.” Her eyebrows raise. “I get it. I fell for one too.”

I look out the window at the quietness of the town she’s set up in. “Griz didn’t come with you.”

---