Scarlett went for his waistband. “Here, look—”
“Don’t take my pants off,” Devlin said with a hearty laugh, twisting so she couldn’t drop his drawers.
“I was just going to show her that it isn’t really that bad. At first glance, you can’t even tell. And the rose is real pretty.”
Callie covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. “That’s okay, I don’t need to see it. I was just going to tell you, I know a tattoo artist who does incredible work. I bet he could fix it for you. He’s up in Blue Moon, but it would be worth the drive.”
“Thanks, May—I mean, Callie,” Devlin said. “I guess we can call you by your real name now.”
She smiled. “Yeah. It feels good. Like I can be me again. Although that reminds me, I have no idea how I’m going to explain this to my boss.”
“You should invite him out here to visit,” Scarlett said. “Introduce him around town. I bet it’ll help clear things up.”
“She makes a good point,” Cassidy said. “Bootleg Springs is a place that needs to be experienced to be understood.”
“That’s actually a good idea. I know he’d love to meet you.” She poked my chest.
“He won’t try to talk me into some record deal, will he?”
Callie ran her hand down my chest. “He might nudge you a little, but he won’t push hard. He’s a man who knows how to take no for an answer and not let it hurt his ego.”
“I hate him less already.”
She laughed and I pulled her against me. Wrapped my arms around her. I kissed the top of her head and held her close.
“I don’t care what happens, I wouldn’t trade this for anything,” I said quietly. “Before you, my life wasn’t much. Now I have everything. And you can be damn sure I’m gonna fight to keep it.”
Slipping her arms around my waist, she rested her head against my chest and took a deep breath. “I love you so much, Gibson Bodine.”
“I love you too, Callie. Everything’s gonna turn out okay. I promise.”
41
MAYA
The mood in the Brunch Club was serious, despite the stack of bacon and egg pastries on the table. I sat near the back with a wall of men blocking my view of most of the cute little restaurant. George, Devlin, Jameson, Jonah, Bowie, Buck, Sonny Fullson, Nash, and Jimmy Bob Prosser all stood in a curved row, partially surrounding my table while we waited for my press conference.
Jenny sat with me, alternately giving my hand, then Gibson’s, reassuring squeezes. Like she couldn’t help momming on us both. I appreciated it. And the sweetest thing was, I could tell Gibson did, too. He didn’t let many people touch him—other than me and our dog—but he let her. He didn’t pull away or glare at her, or cross his arms so she couldn’t reach his hand. He left it sitting out, like he was inviting her to keep loving on him a little.
It made me love both of them even more.
The Bodine’s family lawyer, Jayme, tapped the toe of her stiletto. She stood with arms crossed, her attention on her phone. She was sleek and intimidating in her black pantsuit. Although she wasn’t here for me—she was here as legal representation for the Bodines—her mildly threatening presence was oddly comforting. At least she was on our side.
The media turnout wasn’t big, but we hadn’t expected it to be. The way Bootleg had fooled so many bloggers and journalists last winter made a lot of them reluctant to come back, especially for anything related to the Callie Kendall story.
And Sheriff Tucker had been adamant about not leaking too much information, even in an effort to get more reporters to come. He wasn’t sure about going to the press at all. Said he’d rather we wait until the FBI had a chance to review the evidence and arrest the Kendalls.
He didn’t know my parents like I did. They were coming. I could feel it, as if the fall winds carried the stench of their evil all the way to West Virginia.
If I told the world who I was—if people knew and word started to spread—at least they wouldn’t be able to have me killed and sweep my death under the rug. I needed more than the people of Bootleg Springs to know I was alive.
And I had no doubt they wanted me gone. I’d always known. From the moment I’d walked out the door and run away from home, I’d known what it meant.
I just had to hope the FBI would move in on them soon. And that the case would stick and they’d both go to prison. Hopefully forever.
For now, I told myself we didn’t need a lot of journalists here. Once I made my public statement, and we showed my DNA results proving who I was, word would spread. We’d help it along. Leah Mae was already poised to post the story in a hundred different places online. She had bloggers on standby all over the country, waiting for the big news out of Bootleg Springs.
The door opened, but I couldn’t see past the wall of Bootleg men.
“Y’all about ready?” It was Scarlett’s voice.
Jenny reached over and squeezed Gibson’s hand again, then mine. “You’re going to do great.”
“Thanks, Jenny,” I said. “For everything.”
The men parted like an automatic door. Gibson shadowed me as I walked outside, his imposing presence palpable behind me. I clutched a stack of index cards with what I wanted to say written on them. I didn’t want to let my nerves get the best of me and forget everything in the face of the crowd.
Because a crowd there was. It looked like all of Bootleg Springs had come to Gin Rickey Park, gathering in front of the makeshift podium Mayor Auggie had erected this morning. The wooden platform was slightly more official-looking than the crate in Old Jefferson Waverly’s barn. Speakers had been set up and a microphone was ready on a metal stand.
My stomach fluttered, and not in the good way. Those nervous butterflies flapped their wings so hard they whipped up a tornado in my belly. Suddenly that breakfast Shelby had talked me into eating this morning seemed like it might have been a terrible mistake.
Gibson’s gentle touch on my back instantly calmed the storm. I realized I’d stopped walking.
“You’re gonna be just fine,” he said quietly into my ear. His low voice washed over me like cool water on a hot summer day. “I’ll be with you the whole time.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. Took a deep breath. And kept walking.
The crowd hushed as I made my way to the podium. Mayor Auggie and Sheriff Tucker stepped up behind the microphone. A knot of journalists stood in front. Everyone from the editor of the Bootleg Springs Gazette and a reporter from the local news station—complete with a camera guy—to a handful of journalists and bloggers with nothing but cell phones. Behind them, most of Bootleg Springs.
I waited behind the podium with Gibson. Next to him stood his family. Scarlett and Devlin, Jonah and Shelby, Jameson and Leah Mae, and Bowie with a uniformed Cassidy. A united front. Jayme bookended them on the other side, her fierce gaze scanning the crowd.
George stood with June, his parents, and Nadine Tucker. They were up front, but off to the side, as were Jenny and Jimmy Bob. Seeing their friendly faces was comforting.
Mayor Auggie stepped up to the mic. With a fist to his mouth, he turned and cleared his throat before beginning. “Thank y’all for coming. We have important news to share today. Without any ado, I’ll turn things over to Sheriff Harlan Tucker.”
My eyes scanned the crowd. Lee Williams was safely locked up in the Bootleg Springs jail. But I hadn’t heard a word about the Kendalls. Gibson’s family had taken turns driving by their house on Speakeasy Drive this morning, but the driveway had remained empty. No one had seen them pull into town.
Even if they’d arrived, they couldn’t have been among the faces of Bootleg Springs. The town would have gone into an uproar. But I couldn’t help looking for them, fear knotting my belly.
Maybe I’d never have to see them. Maybe they’d stay in Washington and be arrested there. They’d go to trial and there would be so much evidence against them, my statement would be enough. I wouldn’t have to testify. I wouldn’t have to look at my mother’s cold, dead
eyes ever again.
Gibson squeezed my shoulder, jerking me back to reality. Harlan was about to speak.
“It’s my pleasure to bring you this announcement,” he said, his voice steady. “There has been a significant development in the case of Callie Kendall. Thirteen years ago, she went missing from our town. Recently, it was reported that her body had been identified. I’m here to tell you, that report is false. Callie Kendall is not dead. She’s alive and well and she’d be happy to tell you so herself.”
Instead of the surprised gasps of the secret town meeting, the residents of Bootleg cheered. Applause rose from the crowd. People whooped and hollered. Shrill whistles rang through the air. It made my breath catch in my throat. I loved these people so much, I didn’t know what to do with myself.
Most of the journalists turned, pointing cameras and cell phones behind them, recording the town’s reaction.
Gibson took my hand and gave it a tight squeeze, then let go. I stepped up to the mic on the podium.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice projecting through the big speakers. “My name is Callie Kendall.”
Cheers erupted again and I had to stop until the whooping, hollering, and whistling died down.
“I disappeared from Bootleg Springs thirteen years ago. I’m sure your first question is whether I can prove it. After all, there’s a forensics report that says I’m dead. And a woman already tried to claim she was me. I can assure you, I’m the real Callie Kendall.”
Sheriff Tucker handed me the DNA report and I held it up.
“This is DNA evidence proving my identity. I’ve had it verified and notarized. Copies will be made available. But this is irrefutable proof that I am who I say I am.”
I had the attention of the journalists now. None of this was news to the Bootleg crowd, but they still listened with rapt attention. Sheriff Tucker took the DNA report and I adjusted the index cards.
“Thirteen years ago, I ran away from home. My parents, Judge Henry Kendall and Imogen Kendall, were abusing me. I still bear the scars of their abuse.” I touched my face, calling attention to the scar on my cheek. “I left in fear for my life. Jonah Bodine Sr. and his wife Connie helped me that night.
“Mr. Bodine has been wrongfully accused of kidnapping, harming, or even murdering me. I would like to set the record straight, once and for all, that Mr. Bodine did none of those things. He and his wife were heroes to me. They saved a terrified, wounded child and risked themselves to get her to safety. For that, I will always be grateful.”
Another cheer rose up from the crowd, people shouting Jonah and Connie’s names. I glanced over my shoulder at Gibson and his family. Emotion shone on all their faces. Gibson met my eyes and nodded.
I turned back to the mic. “I was taken somewhere safe where kind people cared for me and helped me heal. I grew into adulthood and struck out on my own, with a new name. And until recently, I thought I’d left everything about my life as Callie behind.
“I was traveling out of the country for my job when my missing-persons case was reopened last year. It wasn’t until recently that I became aware of all the new developments. I stayed hidden for all those years to protect myself. But I can’t hide any longer. Too much is at stake. There are many parts of this that I can’t comment on because they’re a part of a larger ongoing investigation. Justice still needs to be served. But I’m here today to share the truth. My name is Callie Kendall, and I’m very much alive. Thank you.”
The town cheered again as I stepped away from the mic. Sheriff Tucker took my place, giving me a proud smile.
The journalists swarmed toward the podium, everyone suddenly very interested in this story. Hands shot in the air and many shouted questions.
“I’m afraid we can’t answer any more questions due to the sensitive nature of this investigation,” Sheriff Tucker said. “But thank y’all for being here.”
“Let’s go,” Jayme said, her voice sharp. She motioned for us to follow.
She’d insisted we have an exit plan, and she’d been right. Journalists were already trying to get past Sheriff Tucker and his deputies. Jimmy Bob and George casually strode forward to help block our escape.
We quick-walked back to the Brunch Club where the private room was waiting for us.
Gibson gathered me in his arms, crushing me against his chest. “Honey, I’m so proud of you.”
Closing my eyes, I melted into him. I’d taken the final step and told the world who I was. A potent sense of relief washed over me. I could finally be me again.
“I never could have done that without you,” I said quietly.
“I don’t know about y’all, but I feel like a wrung-out washrag,” Scarlett said, plopping into a chair. “How’re you holding up, Callie?”
Gibson’s arms loosened enough for me to turn toward her. “I’m okay, actually. I think it went well.”
“It was perfect,” Cassidy said.
“Any word on the Kendalls?” Gibson asked.
“Not that I know of,” Cassidy said. “Dad was up half the night talking to the FBI. They’re taking it seriously, that’s the good news. But they’re not exactly texting him the play-by-play. I don’t think we’ll hear anything until they make an arrest.”
A low growl rumbled in Gibson’s throat.
“I think it’s working,” Leah Mae said, looking up from her phone. “Bits of your statement are already being reported at some of the smaller news sites. It’s only a matter of time before the big ones pick up the story.”
“You know what we need now?” Scarlett asked. “A platter of bad-for-you food and a couple pitchers of mimosas.”
That sounded perfect to me.
* * *
An hour and a half later, we’d all soothed our rough nerves with a good meal. Jayme declared the situation stable and left. I wondered if the Bodines were going to need a family lawyer anymore. The civil suit the Kendalls had filed would be dropped. Jonah Bodine Sr. was no longer a person of interest in a missing-persons case.
The truth was in the open now.
Jameson, Leah Mae, Jonah, and Shelby went out on a quick walk through town to see what was happening—if anything. They returned to report the crowd at Gin Rickey park had disbursed. Shelby saw the local news crew packing up their van. It looked like most of the reporters and bloggers had left, probably back to their offices or laptops in a race to be among the first to break the news.
They said the town seemed its usual self. A little quieter than summer. But they’d spotted Gert—Cassidy and June’s Gram-Gram—having a heated argument with her frenemy, Myrt, on the corner outside Yee Haw Yarn and Coffee. Wade Zirkel’s fancy new four-by-four had broken down in the middle of Lake Drive and he’d been walking laps around it, scratching his head like he had no idea what to do. Mona Lisa McNugget had somehow gotten stuck on the roof of her coop and Bex and Fanny Sue had been busy trying to coax her down.
Just a typical Bootleg Springs afternoon.
Gibson leaned back, his arm slung over the back of my chair. He absently ran his fingers through my hair while we listened to Bowie spin a tall-tale style story about great-grandaddy Jedediah Bodine and his famous bootlegging shenanigans.
With our meal wrapped up and the press conference over, it was time to go home and wait. Gibson seemed reluctant to put more than two inches of space between us, even standing guard outside the ladies’ room while I went in. His family wandered out onto the sidewalk, still chatting. He led me outside with an arm around my shoulders.
I couldn’t wait to get back to Gibson’s house. To the space and solitude. I wanted to get in bed and hunker down with him beneath the covers. Close my eyes and lose myself in him. Shut out the world and pretend it didn’t exist for a little while.
Angry voices across the street made me turn. There was a commotion outside Moonshine. At first I wondered if Gram-Gram and Myrt’s little spat had spun out of control. But then I saw the beige Lexus with Virginia plates parked down the street.
�
�It’s them,” I said. “They’re here.”
Gibson’s arm shot around my waist, like he was about to pick me up and carry me to his truck. The chatter around me faded, a ripple running through our little group.
And then I saw them.
Judge Kendall stood outside Moonshine, dressed in a crisp button-down shirt. He looked so much older than I remembered. His hair was thinning, and he wore wire-rimmed glasses. When I was young, he’d only worn glasses for reading.
And her. She’d aged as well. The lines around her eyes were deeper. Not smile lines. Imogen Kendall hadn’t smiled enough to earn the pleasant-looking marks of a life well lived. Hers angled downward, both from her eyes and the corners of her mouth.
They were both well-dressed. Impossibly tidy without a wrinkle or a hair out of place. And in the moment that our eyes met—when they saw me for the first time in thirteen years—neither of them smiled. Not in that half-second of recognition. Not until the shock appeared to wear off and they seemed to recall they had an audience.
My mother gasped, clutching her chest. My father stepped close and held her shoulders, as if she needed him to keep her upright.
The world seemed to go silent. Conversations among neighbors on the street ceased. The people who’d started to gather around my parents halted, their eyes darting around, as if they weren’t sure what to do. Even the air felt still, like Bootleg Springs itself held its breath, waiting to see what would happen.
“Oh my god,” my mother said, her dead eyes locked on me. “Callie? Is it true? Is it really my daughter?”
Blinking a few times, I stared at her, momentarily dumbstruck. Nothing about this should have surprised me. Of course they were going to play the part of the heartbroken parents. Maybe they didn’t know how close they were to having their lives upended. Or maybe they were arrogant enough to think they’d walk away from this.
“Imogen, it’s her,” my father said. His voice had considerably less emotion than my mother’s. “She’s come back to us.”
Highball Rush: Bootleg Springs Book 6 Page 32
