Page 105 of Silver Player

I shouldn’t be concerned about who testifies in favor or against Billy, but panic strikes when I see his father. Billy’s told me of their strained relationship.

“William,” I snap into the phone when he answers on the first ring as I’m exiting the courthouse.

“Roxie,” he groans, minus any irritation. He almost sounds relieved.

“Did you know your dad was going to the courthouse?”

“So?”

“He was there to testify after me.”

“It’s not a trial, Roxanne. No one’s going to jail.”

I pause before I enter my car, taken aback by the sharpness of his tone. I thought he might be concerned. It’s his dad. The man he claims he’s never pleased.

“I was trying to be helpful. I thought you might like to know.”

“You’re concerned about me?” His tone is sharp, and I yank open my car door with more force than necessary. As I slip into the cold vehicle, I sit with the phone pressed to my ear.

“It’s your dad, Billy.” I pause, deciding I’m making more of this than I should. “You know what, never mind. I have to go.”

“Roxie, I—”

I click off the phone before I can hear anything else. Just hearing his voice made my heart ache again, but he was too curt. I toss the phone on the seat next to me and start the car as tears fill my eyes. Memories rush forward of losing my mother, my father, and my sister. And Sadie will be next. I’ll be alone.

37

Fathers and sons

[Billy]

“What the fuck?” I hang up the phone and stare at my oldest brother as I slip the device into my back pocket.

“What’s up?” We’re standing inside the brewery in what we call the passion lab. It’s a place where we experiment with ingredients and combinations and design the next flavors for our brew. Although it’s the holidays, we need to be a season ahead, so we’re working on summer stock, and by we, I mean me.

Yep, I have another little secret.

“Roxie called and said Dad is being interviewed regarding my case with Sadie.”

Giant shrugs like this isn’t a big deal.

“Giant, it’s Dad. The judgmental prick. The one who thinks I fuck everything up.”

“He doesn’t think that.” He unstoppers a growler and pours a sample we’ve been brewing for a bit. “Here.”

Giant isn’t a chemist. He’s a businessman. While Dad knew all the classic recipes, passed down from generation to generation and perfected over time before craft brewing became legal in Georgia, Giant wasn’t a master brewer. He accepted his position as head of company because the brewery needed more, and he needed a place to plant his feet after his medical discharge. He believed diversity was the way to grow, and he needed specialty flavors—limited selection promoting urgency.

That’s where I come in.

Our grandfather used to bring me into this room and allow me to play with the ingredients. After a hard day under my father’s demeanor and disappointment, Pap knew I needed to learn something for me—

have my own secret success—and he decided this is where it would be. The passion lab.

I sip a swill from the sample, almost rinsing my mouth with the liquid, and then swallow, waiting on an aftertaste.

“Almost,” I say, thinking the fermentation needs a bit longer.

“Dad won’t say anything against you.” Giant tries to assure me, pausing a minute as the expression on his typically stern face turns sterner. Is that even a word? I was the one who didn’t do well with decoding words.