Page 123 of Highball Rush
“Twelve. Do you mean twelve years?”
One sharp nod.
I met his eyes, but neither of us spoke. We didn’t have to. His mother had died in an accident on Mountain Road twelve years ago. An accident that might not have been an accident.
This wasn’t a coincidence. This was proof. My parents—probably my mother—had killed Connie Bodine.
37
GIBSON
Callie’s revelation left me reeling.
We packed up the license plate and brought it back to my place. She changed out of her jeans and curled up on the couch with Cash.
“You should take it to the sheriff,” she said, running her hand over Cash’s soft fur.
“How are you so calm?” I asked. She’d just dredged up those godawful memories, but I was the one pacing around the room.
“I feel clear,” she said. “It was like cleaning poison from a wound. It hurt, but now that it’s over, I think I can finally finish healing.”
I knelt in front of her and touched her face. “You’re amazing. Do you know that?”
Her smile soothed some of the rage boiling inside me. “Thanks. So are you.”
I grumbled something incoherent as I stood. “All right, I’ll go see the sheriff. You sure you’re okay? Do you want me to call Shelby or Leah Mae or Scarlett or something?”
“I have Cash to keep me company. I’ll be fine. I think I need a little time.”
Cash’s ears twitched and he opened his eye.
“Good boy. Take care of our girl.”
I was glad Callie was handling things so well. I was proud of her for being strong enough to face her past.
Me, on the other hand—I was fucking done with the whole thing.
I was sick of waiting. Sick of being told we didn’t have enough evidence to put these monsters away. There wasn’t long until the judge’s confirmation hearing. I wasn’t going to sit around and hope there was enough paint on the license plate to get a match. Or that someone else would find a way to prove Lee Williams worked for the judge. The fucker was wandering around my town, making my girl afraid to go out.
It was getting on toward dinner, but I found Sheriff Tucker still at the station. Bex brought me back to his office.
“Gibson,” he said, looking up from a stack of paperwork on his desk. “What can I do for you?”
He raised an eyebrow when I lowered myself into the chair on the other side of his desk. I pulled the license plate out of my bag. He moved his papers aside so I could set it in front of him.
“What’s this?”
“I think that when you run that plate, you’ll find it belonged to Mrs. Kendall. Twelve years ago.”
His eyes widened slightly, and he smoothed his mustache a few times while he studied the plate.
“All right, Gibson. I’m listening.”
I told him everything, and the more I talked, the more shaken up he looked. His jaw hitched and I could see the fury in his eyes—anger that matched mine. It burned like a bed of coals in my gut.
When I finished, he was quiet for a few minutes. He nodded his head silently a few times, like he was digesting everything.
“Damn,” he said, finally. The sheriff had always been a man of few words, and he didn’t need to say anything more. I understood. Felt the same way.
