Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs, #5)(86)

Gibson handed the puppy over to my mother who still looked guilty and dazed.

She and I were going to have a long talk in the near future.

“Why didn’t you tell Jonah when he came here?” Shelby asked. It was like the woman could read my mind.

“Everyone was safer assuming Callie Kendall was gone,” Mom said. She seemed lighter, too. As if sharing this news had somehow lessened a weight she’d been carrying for a long time.

“Maybe everyone is still safer assuming she’s dead,” I pointed out.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gibson demanded.

“Our brother is getting married tomorrow. Do we really want to have a family sit-down and ruin that? Who’s going to be paying attention to two people who waited their entire lives for six o’clock tomorrow when the whole world is lit up over Callie Kendall being alive?”

“Still, it would be nice if she could go un-missing to clear this mess up,” Shelby mused.

“Call her,” Gibson said earnestly to my mom. “Bring her back here.”

“I can’t do that, Gibs. It was one-way communication. Everything was set up for her safety. I don’t know where she is or how to contact her. After your mother died, Callie and your father spoke on the phone. They decided that she would continue sending postcards but to me instead of here, where someone might notice them and wonder.”

“Who would see a postcard and find it suspicious enough to raise a red flag?” Shelby asked.

“Seriously, Shelby? How long have you been in Bootleg?” Gibson asked dryly. It was the first hint of humor I’d seen from him in a long time.

She gave a little mock bow. “Point taken. The bottom line is, what if the postcards aren’t enough proof?” she said, wetting her lips. “If someone has the power to tamper with a forensics report, they’re not going to have much of a problem disproving a couple of postcards that could have been sent by anybody. Without Callie herself, we’ve still got nothing.”

“You have me,” Mom said firmly. “Your father’s name needs to be cleared. I’ll tell them everything I know.”

“It’s still… what would Jayme call it?” I asked. “Hearsay? So you got postcards in the mail. What are they going to do? Fingerprint them?”

“Maybe. And there’s also the fact that I met her last year.”

“Mom! Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Holy shit,” Shelby breathed.

“Holy shit. Disney princess swore,” Gibson whispered.

“Watch your mouth, Jonah. And no, I’m not fucking kidding you,” Mom said with a slight smile. “When your father died last year, Callie called me. We met in Seattle for lunch.”

“What did she say? How did she look? Could you tell it was her?” Shelby was hinged so far forward her chin was almost on the table.

I stroked a hand over her back, feeling unusually calm. I assumed a complete and total breakdown was in my near future and decided to embrace the calm while it lasted.

“She’d heard your father passed away. With both your parents gone, she felt her debt to them, to make sure they knew she was safe, had been fulfilled. That’s why the postcards stopped.”

“So we tell the sheriff,” I pressed.

“Tomorrow. After the wedding,” Gibson decided.

“Okay,” I said.

We were all silent for another minute before Gibson spoke again. “She’s really alive?”

The hope in his voice made me hurt for him.

Mom nodded. “She’s alive, and your father saved her life.”

“Why would she have stayed away this whole time?” Gibson wondered aloud, his face broody.

“Only Callie could answer that,” Mom said.

Billy Ray tore into the dining room, dragging one of my running shoes by the laces. It got wrapped around the table leg, and the puppy stubbornly tried to tug it free.

We watched him, all a little dazed.

“You know, I thought it would feel good to finally have some answers,” Shelby said. “Now, I just have more questions.”

“Join the fucking club,” Gibson said, pushing away his untouched whiskey.





48





Shelby





The toe I dipped into Cheat Lake was considering frostbite. I’d done the majority of my training in Bootleg’s lovely, heated waters. So normal lake temperatures were cold enough to take my breath away, even in the swelter of the first Saturday in August.

I was standing in the back of the pack of bathing-suited athletes with race numbers written on their arms and legs feeling like there were few places on Earth that I belonged less than right here. Everyone else looked leanly muscled, icily calm like they did this every Saturday on this sliver of beach surrounded by thick trees that sang with cicadas.

According to my fitness watch, my heart was attempting to explode its way out of my chest.

I felt alone. Lonely.

It wasn’t true, of course. I’d been chauffeured here in Estelle’s minivan with the Breakfast Club, my bike on the roof, my gear behind Gert and Jefferson in the back bench seat.

The odds of me being attacked fifty miles from Bootleg Springs in a crowd of triathletes and spectators were low enough that Jonah had settled for me having a geriatric team of babysitters. They were waiting for me at the transition point between the swim and the bike. “To make sure you didn’t drown,” Myrt had offered helpfully.