Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs, #5)(84)

“I know your father didn’t kill Callie,” Jenny said, gaze skating back and forth between Jonah and Gibson.

“Why? Because the drunk sonofabitch told you he didn’t?” Gibson snapped. There was so much pain in his voice that it hurt me to hear it.

“Your father saved Callie Kendall’s life.”

Gibson was shaking his head already. Like he was trying to shake free the hope the words sparked.

“Mom, what are you saying?” Jonah asked.

Jenny took a fortifying sip of whiskey and settled back in her chair.

“Jonah was coming home from a late run to the grocery store—”

“You mean the liquor store,” Gibson sneered.

Jenny covered his hand with hers, and I watched in surprise when he didn’t pull away.

Gibson Bodine needed a mom. A mom like Jenny. And that just about broke my heart for the man.

I reached for Jonah’s hand under the table and squeezed.

“The grocery store,” she repeated gently. “He’d gotten paid for a big job that day and had some money burning a hole in his pocket. So he got steaks for the whole family to grill the next day.”

Gibson sat stonily. But he was listening.

“He was on his way home. It was dark. There was this flash of red crumpled up on the side of the road.”

I held my breath.

Gibson pushed away from the table and rose but didn’t go anywhere.

“It was Callie. She’d been hurt badly. Jonah thought maybe she’d been hit by a car. Until he got a better look at her. Her face was bruised and cut. There was a lot of blood. She had several cuts on one arm. They looked deep.”

Gibson’s nostrils flared.

I fought against the memories that threatened to swallow me. I knew what it was like to be bruised and cut.

“He took his shirt off and tied it around her arm. Asked if she wanted to go to the hospital or home. She said neither. Asked him to help her get out.”

“Who did it?” Gibson demanded. “Who did she say did it?”

“She didn’t. She refused to tell him. Jonah worried that because she didn’t want to go home that it meant her father had done something. But when he asked her, Callie refused to answer. She begged him to get her out. To help her leave. To save her life. She was shaking, in shock. And terrified. He said he’d never seen anyone so scared in all his life.

“So he took her to your grandfather’s cabin, where you live now. It had been empty for a few years by that point. And he called your mother. Connie called you that night and asked you to take your brothers and sister for the night. Remember?”

Gibson nodded slowly. “I thought they’d had another fight and didn’t want anyone around.”

“She came to the cabin with first aid supplies, and they did what they could to stop the bleeding and clean her up. She was hurt badly but kept insisting that she needed to get out. That her life depended on it. They believed her, Gibson. So the next day, your father took your mother’s car, and he and Callie left town. He drove her to New York. To a friend of a friend of Callie’s. Someone she said she could trust. And then he came home.”

“None of this makes any sense. Obviously, he didn’t save her life. That’s still her body they found.”

“No, it’s not,” Jenny said firmly.

“The dental records matched,” Jonah chimed in. “They identified the body as hers.”

“I’m telling you the dental records are wrong or the report was tampered with. That body is not Callie Kendall’s. But someone wants her to stay gone.”

The hairs on my arms stood at attention.

“What proof do you have?” Gibson demanded, his voice breaking.

Thoughts whirled around in my brain.

Wordlessly, Jenny reached into her purse and pulled out a stack of postcards. She laid them out one by one in front of Gibson. Blue Moon Bend, New York. Buenos Aires. Tokyo. Atlanta. Los Angeles. London. Seattle. Boston.

There were twelve in total. The first several were addressed to Jonah Bodine in Bootleg Springs.

“I don’t understand,” Jonah said.

Jenny tapped the first one. Blue Moon. “Flip it over.”

Restlessly, Gibson flipped it on the table.

Thanks for everything.

Gibson sank back down in his chair like his knees had gone weak. He looked pale.

Jonah picked up the card and studied it. “The postmark is a week after she went missing.”

“Are you saying these postcards are all from Callie Kendall?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me rendering me unable to stay quiet.

This was a family matter. But I’d been drawn into it. Or I’d drawn myself into it.

Gibson flipped every card over carefully. “That’s her handwriting,” he said hoarsely.

I skimmed over them quickly. They were all postmarked about a year apart. The more recent ones included innocuous song lyrics. The last card had been mailed thirteen months ago. To Jonah’s mother.

“If she sent these cards,” I said, “there’s no way those remains are hers.”

“And if they aren’t hers, who do they belong to?” Jonah asked. “And why does someone want everyone to believe it’s Callie?”





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