by Lucy Score
“You’ve taken independence to a whole new level,” Scarlett pointed out.
At that moment I heard the scrape of metal on concrete. Scarlett and I got up to look out the back window where Bowie Fucking Bodine was shoveling my walk.
“I was getting to it,” I grumbled. Jesus, a girl couldn’t catch a few hours of sleep after a late-night call and then shovel her own walk? It wasn’t like anyone but me would be using the back door anyway.
“May it please the court? Exhibit A of Cassidy’s overinflated independence.”
“We need to stop watching all those lawyering shows.” Scarlett and I had binge-watched our way through Boston Legal and now the better part of Suits. She wanted to get a better handle on what Devlin did for a living. I just liked the bromances.
“And you and Bowie need to work this out.”
9
Bowie
Jayme swirled into the Brunch Club in head-to-toe city black. Her spiky heels weren’t snow storm appropriate. But they worked just fine for ass-kicking. Silence descended over our table in the private room. I glanced around at my family.
Scarlett leaned into her boyfriend Devlin’s side. Devlin, fancy lawyer that he was, had gone and gotten us Jayme when Scarlett found Callie Kendall’s sweater in our dad’s house last spring. Jameson and Leah Mae had their heads together, sharing the same menu like stupid in love new couples tended to do.
Jonah, our half-brother and the newest official addition to our family, kicked back in his chair and waited for Jayme to drop whatever bomb she had stored in her big-ass pocket book. Gibson stared moodily into his coffee.
The server, a tall, pale senior from my high school, approached. He didn’t make eye contact with me, which was fine with me. The whole town probably already knew we were meeting with our lawyer.
“Coffee me,” Jayme ordered succinctly. She ran a practice in Charleston and also paid us enough visits in Bootleg Springs to keep our asses out of trouble. I wondered if she was charging us double time for bringing her in on a Saturday. “Keep it coming.” She sent him scurrying off.
“You’re acting like I’m one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse,” Jayme complained. “This isn’t terrible news.”
“It’s Callie’s blood,” Gibson snapped.
“Callie’s. Not your father’s. And not yours or yours or yours,” she said, pointing around the table at each of the male members of the Bodine clan. “You think the investigators aren’t considering all possibilities? You all lived in Bootleg. You all had access to that house and the victim.”
She let that sink in as the kid returned with a huge mug of steaming coffee. The rest of us shared a long look.
“Thanks,” Jayme said, sticking her face in the mug.
We ordered somberly, and when the server left, Scarlett leaned in. “You’re saying my brothers are suspects?”
“I’m saying they would have been. You too, Scarlett, if anyone thought you could murder someone in cold blood and keep quiet about it for years.” Everyone but Gibson cracked a smile at that. If Scarlett killed someone, it would be in a fit of rage in front of the whole damn town, not in cold calculation.
“Yes. It’s Callie’s blood on the sweater. But there wasn’t a speck of Bodine DNA found. Your dad could have found that sweater in the woods. Hell, the real killer could be a neighbor trying to frame Jonah Sr.”
“That’s unlikely,” I said dryly. It would have been real nice if our father hadn’t up and died so he could answer the questions we all had about just how he came to be in possession of the bloody sweater Callie Kendall went missing in all those years ago. And those pesky other questions about where the hell he’d disappeared to immediately after cops and reporters had turned Bootleg Springs upside down in a frantic search for the missing teenager.
“Unlikely, but if it comes down to it, if the investigators get a hard-on for one of you, I can argue that.”
“Reasonable doubt,” Devlin said.
“Exactly.”
“So what do we do now? The news is gonna break and soon, I’m sure,” I spoke up. “Maybe the cops aren’t looking at us right now, but that doesn’t mean the entire state won’t be pointing fingers in our direction.”
“You’re going to keep your mouths shut. You’re not going to get into a single bar fight. You aren’t going to say so much as ‘Hey, y’all,’ to a reporter or I’ll drive up here and parade you out in front of the courthouse and make you give a press conference.”
Jameson visibly shuddered. None of us wanted to stand up with a dozen microphones in our faces and explain how we didn’t think our dad had anything to do with the death or disappearance of Callie Kendall.
Especially since I wasn’t sure which side I fell on. Was my father a killer? I didn’t think it was likely that the man I’d known my entire life had committed some gruesome murder. But could he have hit her driving drunk? Hadn’t he taken out an entire hedgerow at the house after a bender? I looked up and met Gibs’s eyes. He was thinking along the same lines.
I didn’t know. Maybe I’d never know. Maybe Callie’s disappearance would never be solved and my father’s memory would always be in question. Did anyone ever really know their parents?
“Judging by the crickets around the table, none of you want me to make good on that threat. So let’s all do our best not to ruin the advantage we were just handed.”
“Yes, ma’am,” we all recited together like a kindergarten class.
With bellies full of egg white omelets, Jonah and I climbed back in his car.
“That woman is intense,” he commented.
“She’s terrifying. You should ask her out.”
He snorted. “I’m still dealing with finding out that I have four siblings and that my biological father might be a murderer. I don’t have the mental capacity to deal with dating right now.” He winced. “Sorry. I didn’t sleep well. I don’t mean to say shit about your dad.”
“Our dad,” I corrected. Accepting Jonah had been easier than I thought. He didn’t want a damn thing besides getting to know us. “Too much hot sausage and ‘shine last night?”
Jonah took the whole healthy lifestyle to levels that even I considered unhealthy. If it was processed or greasy, it went nowhere near his plate. He probably lay in bed at night starving from his rabbit food and protein shakes.
“I was rudely awakened by my roommate’s hissy fit this morning. What was with all the door slamming?” Jonah asked with a yawn.
“I was fighting with Cassidy,” I sighed.
“Really?” he perked up. “What’s up with that?”
“She knew about the DNA and didn’t tell me. Us. Didn’t say a damn word.”
“Well, she is a cop,” Jonah supplied.
“Whose side are you on? The next-door neighbor’s or your new roommate’s?”
“Depends on who’s right. Does she usually talk to you about ongoing investigations?”
“No.” She didn’t talk to me about much of anything. She talked to people around me. “But we had a right to know.”
“Maybe she was only following orders?” He was parroting Cassidy’s words back at me. The walls were too thin.
“Heard a lot, didn’t you?”
He shrugged and turned off the engine. “What’s her deal? Is she seeing anyone?”
Cassidy and my half-brother Jonah? The half-brother my dad had right after me. I’d sit across from them at Thanksgiving as they juggled babies and side dishes. I’d stand up for Jonah at their wedding and drink myself stupid for a week afterward. The mounds of snow scooped from the walkway took on a blood-red haze.
Jonah laughed. “Relax, man. I’m messing with you. I know you’re into her.”
I could feel my heartbeat in my head. Now I really wanted to kick his ass.
“I’m not into her,” I lied. It was easier than telling the truth, facing the truth.
“You’re full of shit,” he said as we climbed the front porch steps. “Why don’t you just tell her?”
We both paused and looked at Cassidy’s front door.
“It’s not like that,” I snapped. “We’re not like that.” I unlocked the front door.
“Doesn’t mean you can’t be,” he pointed out.
That was exactly what it meant. Cassidy Tucker was off-limits. To me and Jonah.
10
Cassidy
I perused my menu and tried to pretend that knuckle-cracking didn’t make me want to beat the man across from me to death. Once again, I’d been suckered in by a cute picture and charming profile.
I really needed to give up on dating apps. But I’d been mopey since Bowie went all “You’re a shitty friend” on me and thought I’d take one last stab at finding lasting happiness with someone. Anyone. Even this dumbass.
I smiled over the menu at him while fantasizing about dumping the hot wax from the centerpiece candle on him. Baxter was currently having a loud phone conversation with someone he called “sweetheart.” He alternated between picking his teeth with a toothpick that he’d arrived at my house with and rolling his eyes at me during every pause on his end of the call.
“Listen, sweetheart. I’m busy. Now, why don’t you and your sweet ass figure out how to fix it yourself? And remember. If you don’t, you’re fired.” He gave me a slow wink, and I gagged. I grabbed my wine and inhaled it.
He hung up, cracked his knuckles, and gave me a look that was close to a leer. “Sorry about that. That’s my secretary—oh, excuse me. My administrative assistant,” he said with another eye roll. One more of those and his eyeballs were going to dislodge themselves from their sockets.
“Problem at work?” I asked, not giving a flying fuck. I had to hang in there and be polite and get through this evening. I never should have let him insist on picking me up. Now not only did I have to survive dinner, I had to survive a thirty-minute drive home. Ugh. What had I been thinking?
That Bowie would see a date arriving and dropping me off. That’s what I’d been thinking. I wasn’t about to unpack that thought. Not while Mr. Misogyny was preening in front of me.
How much would it cost to Uber back to Bootleg?
I didn’t date in town when it could be helped. Bootleg was my whole life, and I preferred to meet potential suitors/disasters on neutral turf. Plus, I’d dated just about every eligible man in town by now. I needed fresh meat. I had a feeling Baxter here was past his expiration date.
“She can sit there lookin’ pretty as a peach, but ask her to do a simple task like make sure everyone gets paid on time while our accountant is on house arrest and she’s useless. Poor gal screwed something up with the server and the payroll system went down on payday.” He shrugged, not giving a damn. “Not my fault that no one told me not to turn off the backup server.”
“I’m guessing not much is ever your fault,” I predicted.
He plucked that damn toothpick he’d been sucking on out of his mouth and pointed it at me. “You’re damn right. I knew I liked you. You know what else ain’t my fault?”
I didn’t, but I was afraid he was going to tell me.
“That you’re so pretty I think I’m gonna hafta kiss you before the night is over.”
Gross. Barf. Disgusting. I mentally ran through a list of pressure points to squeeze.
“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”
Jesus, when had dating gotten so hard? I first made the mistake of joining the wrong app and getting bombarded with dick pics for a week. Not that I didn’t take great pleasure in responding with a picture of my badge and an explanation of assault. Now, I had to weed out the losers and assholes based on doctored pictures and vague profiles.
Baxter here billed himself as a small business owner who enjoyed giving back to the community. He was slick and plastic-looking. His blond hair was gelled back from his too-orange-for-natural tanned face. He wore a suit and instead of a tie, accessorized with a thick patch of chest hair and a large gold cross. I guessed the only giving back to the community was the amount of money he spent on things like legal representation in sexual harassment lawsuits.
He chuckled like I’d just told a funny story that ended up with me naked with another girl. When he reached across the table and took my hand, I’d had enough.
“You know what, Baxter?”
My threat about him keeping all his fingers only if he kept them off of me was interrupted by the maître d’ fussing over the chairs at the next table.
Mirabella’s was a fancy Italian place where the draperies were heavy, tables were too close together, and I was scared shitless about spilling my dinner on the pristine white tablecloths. Some unlucky couple was about ready to watch me spill Baxter’s guts on the table.
“Your server will be with you in a moment,” the man said to the couple.
“Thank you.”
Oh, holy hell in a damn handbasket. That voice.
Bowie in a goddamn suit came into my field of vision, and I nearly upended my wine glass. Bowie’s gray eyes widened in surprise when they met mine. And then they dipped, reflexively, to give me the once-over.
“Shit.”
His date blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
Bowie turned away from me and looked back at her. She was pretty, if you were into petite and brunette and curvy and perfect. She looked like she’d been a cheerleader in high school. I felt the flush explode on my cheeks like a brushfire.
“Nothing. Sorry.” He held out her chair for her and then took the one across from her. The one with a direct line of sight to me.
“What were you saying, sugar?” Baxter asked, still holding my hand.
Bowie was back to looking at us. His gaze held on our joined hands. Because I was a “shitty friend,” I didn’t stab Good Ol’ Baxter with my steak knife. Instead, I let him hold my hand for a moment longer. Take that, Mr. Bodine. Not everyone found me so repulsive.
Bowie’s date was looking at me now and—damn it! I’d gone and made eye contact.
“What’s going on?” the cheerleader asked. She was no dummy. She picked right up on the tension that crackled like a storm over our two little tables. You’d have to be dumber than a box of rocks not to notice that the air had suddenly taken a turn for the awkward. Baxter didn’t notice.
Bowie laughed nervously. “Uh, Erin, this is my neighbor Cassidy. Small world.” Neighbor? Neighbor? That’s what I was to him?
“Hi,” I said pulling my hand out of Baxter’s sweaty grip to shake Erin’s hand. “This is…” My soon-to-be stabbing victim? A man about to be missing his testicles? My biggest mistake this week? “Baxter.”
“Good to meet you, Baxter,” Bowie said, offering his hand to shake.
“Yeah, uh-huh,” Baxter gave a limp fish shake. “Now, if y’all will excuse me. I’m in the middle of charming the pants off this little lady.” He leaned forward and added in a stage whisper. “Maybe we should have that kiss now as an appetizer? I don’t mind if you use tongue.”
I stared at him, trying to telegraph the message: Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Help me show Bowie that I’m no little sister or shitty friend.
But Baxter was a dumbass and didn’t get the message.
I did the only thing I could do. I laughed with an edge of hysteria that had other diners looking in our direction. That’s it. I was done dating. I’d go get a cat. Two of them. I’d embrace the single lady life because I couldn’t possibly deal with this one second longer. I’d never have to share the TV remote. Leftovers would always be mine. And I’d just wear both halves of the pajamas. Single wasn’t bad. Single was better than Baxter.
The waiter returned with another glass of wine—thank the Lord—and took our appetizer order. Bowie and Pretty, Perfect Erin were stuck in the uncomfortable position of not having their own conversation because, by proximity, they were a part of mine and Baxter’s.
“What is it you said you did again, sugar?” Baxter asked picking up his gin and knocking it back like a shot.
“I’m a cop.” I hadn’t told him.
That tidbit of information didn’t usually make it into my profile for a variety of reasons. Including but not limited to: dates trying to get me to fix speeding and parking tickets for them, questions about whether I’d ever shot anyone, or the bullshit of “girls can’t be cops.” I had a feeling I knew which way Baxter would lean.
“Woo wee! Girls can’t be cops,” he howled, slapping the table. Everything was funny to Bonehead Baxter.
I stared at him coolly. Bowie caught my eye and mouthed “What. The. Fuck?”
I didn’t need him on my side. I didn’t need him anywhere near my single cat lady life.
“Well, I do have a vagina, and I am a cop,” I assured him.
“Prove it.” He cackled lecherously, and I ground a layer of enamel off my teeth.
I could feel Erin’s discomfort radiating out of her totally cute blue sheath dress.
Bowie leaned over. “You better mind those opinions or she’ll tase your ass.”
“I mean, come on. You’re with me, man. Ain’t cha? Women aren’t as strong or as fast as men. Hell, I bet I can outshoot this pretty little thing.”
I threw my napkin on the empty plate in front of me. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find the restroom.” And punch a few holes in the drywall. And Google cat rescues.
Without another word, I stormed away from the table. Away from Baxter and Bowie and Bowie’s perfect date.
11
Cassidy
I shoved the restroom door open with enough force to have it rebounding back at me. So I gave it another bad-tempered push on my way in. It was one of those bathrooms that was decked out to be soothing and spa-like with caramel colored tiles all the way up the wall and a fancy sink that looked like a trough.
Peering in the mirror, I wondered how in the hell I’d sunk to this level. I was a good person. A law-abiding citizen, a squeaky-clean deputy sworn to uphold the law, an excellent daughter, a good friend…despite what some might say. I’d gone to college. I donated to food drives and fire station roof funds. I paid my taxes.
