Page 82 of Whiskey Chase
“But it might not be the right answer, Bowie,” I argued. “Before we throw ourselves on the mercy of this town and beg them to believe us, don’t you think we owe it to Daddy to at least dig a little deeper ourselves?”
“We’re not crime scene investigators,” Bowie snapped. “We have evidence in the highest profile missing person case in the state, and you want to sit on it and hope that our father had nothing to do with it?”
“We vote then,” I said. Jameson was with me. Together we could overrule Bowie.
“We’re not all here,” Bowie said.
Gibson would love to crucify daddy in the court of public opinion. To have the rest of the town believe like he did, that Daddy was a low down, dirty loser? Gibson would gladly sell us all out for that tasty slice of revenge.
“Look,” I began. “I agree that we need the police at some point. But can we just sleep on it? Bow, I’m not ready for everyone to start looking at us as the reason she’s gone. Think about it. Your job could be on the line. What will your friends say? Your neighbors?” I was shamelessly pushing him to think of Cassidy. And it was all selfish.
The second the sweater went to the cops was the moment I’d have to say good-bye to Devlin.
“This is a fucking nightmare,” he said.
“No one can know about this for now, Bowie,” I told him. Not Dev, not Cass. And I wasn’t even sure about Gibson at this point.
“So, what do we do?” Bowie asked.
“We think back. Where were we when Callie went missing? Do we remember anything specific about Dad at the time?”
“How the hell are we supposed to remember?” Bowie growled in irritation. “It was over a decade ago.”
“It’s one of those things where you always remember where you were when it happened,” I told him.
“Gibson’s,” Jameson said suddenly.
I looked at him, the memory dawning. “Yeah. That’s right. We were all at Gibson’s. Cassidy called over to tell us.”
“Why were we all at Gibson’s apartment?” Bowie asked, frown lines carving into his forehead.
32
Scarlett
The subterfuge was killing me. I’d been avoiding Devlin for twenty-four hours. Good guy that he was, he was giving me space with the occasional sweet reminder by text or voicemail that he was around if I wanted to talk or not talk.
I didn’t go back to Daddy’s house. I’d promised I wouldn’t go there without Bowie or Jameson, and to be honest, it hadn’t been a hard promise to make. One little sweater, tucked in the corner of memories, and the whole house felt foreign to me. Everything felt strange and new as if my childhood hadn’t been what I thought it had. My family hadn’t been who I was sure they were.
There was one person who might have some answers, and I wasn’t looking forward to asking him the questions. After he ignored my texts and calls for a full day, I decided enough was enough. Gibson Bodine would talk to me if I had to string him upside down over a camp fire.
I hopped in my pick-up that Devlin and Jonah had thoughtfully returned to me and headed up the mountain. Gibson took his outsider role seriously, building himself a cabin on three acres of woods on a dead-end lane half a mile back from the road. The land had belonged to our grandfather. The shack that still stood at the backside of the property was where Great-Granddaddy Jedidiah hid his still during Prohibition.
Gibson’s only neighbors were deer and bear and birds. Just the way he liked it.
His house was dark, but the lights were on in his shop. He’d built a metal pole building to house his cabinetry business and spent more time out there than inside the house. He was a restless soul, preferring to work long into the night than make small talk with acquaintances over beer. Everyone in town believed him to be the asshole our father had told him he was his whole life, and they accepted it about him. Gibson had never seemed inclined to prove them wrong, even though I knew there was more to him than a bad temper and broody looks.
I pushed open the heavy door next to the garage bay. He was sanding down a set of base cabinets. The space smelled of sawdust and stain. Gibson, asshole that he was, was a master craftsman and made beautiful cabinetry. He charged a hell of a premium, too. But he poured his heart and soul into every piece, making them perfect in ways he could never be.
“I’m busy,” he said without turning around.
In a way, Gibson and I were the closest out of the siblings. Jameson was off in his own world, creating art, avoiding people. Helpful, friendly Bowie, on the other hand, immersed himself in the outside world. But Gibs and I understood each other. Even though we didn’t always agree.
“I need to talk to you about something,” I told him, sliding onto a padded stool against his lacquer red metal cabinets. “It’s bad.”
I saw the hitch in his shoulders, and then he turned to face me. “What?”
No matter what went on in our normal daily life, no matter how much my love of our daddy upset him, I could always count on him. “I found something when I was cleaning out his house.”
