Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs, #5)(53)

First order of business would be a short stretching routine designed to be inserted into her writing and research schedule at regular intervals. As I toggled back and forth between spreadsheet and how-to videos, she yawned loudly, the headphones muffling the sound to her own ears. Billy Ray let out a corresponding yip in his sleep and snuggled closer to my leg.

I liked getting my hands on a new athlete, liked pointing them in the right direction. For most people, a few consistent tweaks made vast differences in their lives and goals. And I hoped it would be the same for Shelby. She was a researcher at heart, an observer. But judging by the reams of data she’d collected for her paper and her lack of progress on the actual writing, she had difficulty turning that research into action.

That’s where I could come in. She’d read up on triathletes and training. Yet her efforts on her own had been haphazard and inconsistent.

Shelby was on my watch now. It was up to me to give her a program that balanced her work, her training, and her condition. It was the kind of challenge I appreciated. And I had a feeling I would enjoy working with her closely.

While she frowned over interviews and academic journals, I pulled together a schedule for the week. Running. Swimming. A bike ride to gauge her abilities. I penciled them into my own calendar, too, before emailing the finished product to Shelby.

“Did you just email me from the living room floor?” she asked with a laugh, slipping off the headphones. Leaning back in her chair, she stretched her arms overhead.

“All of my clients are getting emails from me tonight,” I said, closing my own laptop and sliding it to the floor. Billy Ray grumbled in his sleep.

“I know I’m showing bias, but I find him to be the cutest puppy I’ve ever seen,” she said, staring fondly at the dog.

“I agree with your hypothesis. Did you have a chance to work on his write-up?” I asked.

She cringed. “Not yet.”

Minnie Fae had offered to help us find a permanent home for Billy Ray if we were willing to foster him. We were supposed to be writing a profile that she could post on Minnie’s Meow Meow House’s website.

“There’s no rush,” I said. “It’s probably better if he has time to get used to living in a house. Maybe let him get more consistent with not peeing all over furniture.”

The first few days of having a puppy had been an eye-opening and excessive paper-towel-using experience.

“I think that’s smart,” Shelby said, brightening.

“How’s the dissertation coming?” I asked.

“Ugh. It’s like writer's block for academia. I’ve collected more data and information than I could possibly use. The entire mammoth of a concept is outlined. I just can’t seem to write the damn thing,” she complained. “Plus, I found another project to distract me.”

“Besides me and the dog and your training?” I teased.

“Seeing all that research at June’s into the Callie Kendall thing really sparked some interest,” she confessed. “First of all, the situation is a researcher’s dream. Years of articles and conspiracy theories and the last twelve or so months of developments.”

There it was, her disappearance into fact and figures. The distance she put between herself and the people involved.

“There is a lot of material there,” I agreed, organizing my own papers and files into a stack.

“Plus, I just got a vibe from the Kendalls.”

I stopped what I was doing. “What kind of vibe?”

“I used to be a social worker,” she said. “Sometimes you’d meet someone or you’d walk into a home, and it would just have dirty fingerprints. Like appearances were normal, but something beneath the surface was off.”

“That’s what you felt in the five-second conversation with the Kendalls?” I asked, intrigued.

“It made me wonder. Were they ever suspects? And if they were, what exonerated them in the eyes of the law? I’m hoping it’s not just because Judge Kendall is a state judge. Bad people can have good jobs and be very good about hiding their bad.”

“I’m not doubting your instincts,” I prefaced. “But those people lost their daughter in a very public way and have gone through hell in the last twelve months. Maybe that’s what makes them a little off.”

“A little off,” Shelby repeated triumphantly. “You feel it, too. You’re just too polite or too guilty to really think it.”

“Guilty?”

“Your biological father is a person of interest. You and your siblings all feel some level of responsibility, which, however unnecessary, is understandable. You’re all good people. Good people feel bad about things. Bad people don’t.”

The hair on her arms was standing up, and I wondered if she was cold.

“How about we put it all away for tonight?” I suggested. “It’s getting late, and you haven’t had dinner. I’ll make something. We can go over the schedule I sent you. And maybe watch some TV or a movie?”

Her eyes lit up behind her glasses. “Can I pick?”

“Sure.”

Under Billy Ray’s watchful eye through the back door, I grilled chicken breasts and roasted a foil pack of vegetables.

While I cooked, Shelby opened two beers and got the plates and silverware ready.