Page 30 of Bourbon and Secrets

My mom’s going to need something to calm down.

I’ll have to take off his shoes.

Gather his wallet and turn off his phone.

I factor in his weight.

The weight of this. . .

I can fix it. I have the foresight, training, and knowledge to know what has to be done. And it’s ugly. It will change every part of who I thought I was and who I had been planning to become. But I’ll deal with all of that later.

I grip onto the top corners of the blue plastic and pull. The sound of it crunches as I gather it tight in each fist, and I hold my breath as I use all of my strength to focus. “Focus on the task and do not fall apart.” I keep repeating those words to myself over and over as his body thunks down each step and onto the pavers of our back walkway.

The wet grass makes the tarp easier to drag than I expected.

“Mom, listen to me.” But she doesn’t even look at me. Endless tears track down her face as she stares ahead. “I’ll be back in a little while,” I call out.

The air stops moving—the calm before the storm.

I rub the back of my hand along my forehead and sop up the sweat dripping into my eyes. I need a minute. Dropping the shovel, I lean forward, bracing my hands on my knees. At least it was summer, and the ground is wet from the heavy rainfallthat still lingers. I need his belongings buried as deep as I can dig. His phone and shoes are piled eye-level next to me on the edge of the hole I’ve been digging. I think through my forensics class and roster out the chemicals I need to clean the kitchen properly. I’ll make sure our clothes are burned and our bodies scrubbed thoroughly.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I look up as emotion builds. The strawberry moon lights the sky in a pink tint. It’s supposed to bring a broader sense of responsibility. Summer Solstice and a strawberry moon only happened every twenty years. The only thing I can do is huff a laugh—it’d be easier to blame the moon. Its gravity and pull can manipulate tides, but it isn’t powerful enough to force will or effect choices. It couldn’t undo what she had done. Dammit, this isn’t the life I want. I squint my eyes closed and yell again at the dead body. “Fuck you!”

This isn’t the life my mother wanted, either. She talks about horse training like it’s what she always wanted, but the goal for her was always building out a sanctuary—a place for the ones she trained to live out their lives in open fields.

I glance down the dark rows of corn, pull myself out of the muddy hole, and toss the shovel to the side, where Tullis is slumped and bloody. There were good parts of him, I’m sure. My mother fell in love with some piece of him, and she’s my compass. My true north. The person who always centers me when I find myself spiraling. But now, I have to be that for her.

I wipe my hand down the front of my shorts, pushing away the mud and sweat caked along my wrist and fingers. A blister on each palm already forms right where my heart line splits. I wonder if they’ll leave scars. The sky rumbles in the distance, making the night feel even more volatile, reminding me that there’s so much more to do. I wedge the shovel under Tullis’s hip and use it as leverage to roll his body into the ditch. I’m notsure I’ll ever forget the sound—a thud and squelch as he meets the mud.

Tossing on three cinder blocks, I close my eyes each time they hit him. I don’t need wet earth rejecting him and him rising from the dead. This isn’tPractical Magic—my sister won’t come to the rescue with spells, and a sheriff won’t ride up on horseback to help me bury the truth. My mother and sister are the dreamers in our family, and I’m the realist. If anyone were to find Tullis King along the edge of this cornfield, there wouldn’t be anything charming or enchanting about it.

Two hours later, soaked from the rain and reeling from the way my life has spun out so quickly, I return to my mom still sitting on those steps. I don’t tell her about Lincoln Foxx or the blackmail and ultimatum. But I just buried a body along with the life I had planned for myself with it.

“I have to leave. After tonight,” I tell her, swallowing roughly as my eyes glaze over. “I’ll take his phone and make it seem like he left. You need to withdraw a chunk of money and make it look like he did.”

“Faye. . .” She covers her mouth. “This isn’t–”

But I cut her off and finish her words. “No, Mom, this isn’t okay. None of what happened here will ever be okay...” I stop talking and rest my head on her shoulder for the briefest moment. “Maggie won’t understand why I’m leaving. But you’re going to need to make it okay. Promise me that you’re both going to be okay.” And I know she can’t, even as I plead with her. After tonight, there’s no promising anything, but I need to hear it anyway.

Her voice cracks when she says, “I promise.”

Chapter 11

Lincoln

The firewood cracksloudly as it splits and fully catches fire. Leaning into the chair, I let the warmth from the firepit seep into my boots that are kicked up along its edge.

I knew this conversation was going to be a fight, which is why we’re having it after dinner at the house and not at the distillery. Rubbing my thumb across my bottom lip, I glance at Ace, and it’s obvious he doesn’t like it. That fucker doesn’t like much when it comes to pushing our brand forward.

“I’m not going to do a finished double barrel,” Ace barks out, loud enough to get me to focus on this discussion. “The answer is a no from me.”

I shift in my seat without saying anything and glance at Grant.

He speaks up first. “Why the hell not, Ace?”

“Because that’s not who we are. Foxx Bourbon is known for our bourbon. Real fucking bourbon and not the bullshit craft that’s churning out all over the place.”

I sit up and lean my elbows on my knees, trying to tamp down my frustration. “Everyone has done a double barrel variation. It’s still bourbon.”

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