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“I hope so.” I’m as honest as I can be.
“Good.” Her brow lifts. “Because if not, I know someone who can.”
With that, she slaps a brightly wrapped package in my hand. “Welcome to Tempest, Delilah.”
8 Cole
I sit at the kitchen table with a glass of whiskey by my hand and a laptop in front of me. Technology has done more harm than good, but I’ll use it to my advantage when I can. When I moved back to Tempest six months ago, I renovated the historic ranch house that came with the land from the studs up. All wood floors and walls. More rustic than fancy. Exposed beams. An antler-style chandelier hangs above the dining table.
The big windows that look out onto the porch and ranch are open to the brisk night breeze, giving a stunning view of the ranch and creek. During the day, golden light floods the ranch house, but I’m never around to enjoy it.
Though it’s only a fifteen-minute walk to the distillery, my ranch house, flanked on either side by a grove of evergreens, feels tucked away. How I prefer it.
It’s simple but it’s my escape. Peace and quiet. My sanctuary. I rarely let anyone who isn’t my family inside my home.
I click through the newspaper articles about my parents’ case. A rabbit hole I go down time and time again whenever I have a full whiskey bottle and a late night.
At the keyboard, my hand cramps. I curse the pain and make a fist, hoping to relieve the tingling sensation that’s been happening the last year now. Wrist pain rodeo. It’s the name of the game. Years of gripping the leather rope, of jamming my thumb during a ride, gives me an achy left hand. Raising barrels won’t help, but I never had a pain I couldn’t shake off.
I flex my hand open, the scar stretching, then rub my opposite thumb against the ache.
At the creak of a screen door, I sigh. I can place my uncle by the thud of his bootsteps.
He strides into the kitchen. “Burnin’ the midnight oil?”
I motion at him to sit and close my laptop. “And then some.”
He pulls up a chair and a bottle of whiskey. “Ezra told me you’re using the barrels for the limited-edition launch. I think it’s a damn good idea, Cole. It’ll be a big deal.”
A nostalgic look comes over my uncle’s face, and I suppress a grin. I can tell he’s getting ready to reminisce over a story I’ve already heard a hundred times by now.
“I remember on Weston Whiskey’s opening day, we weren’t much more than a single canopy and a few chairs set out on the patch of land where the Coop sits now.” Into a crystal glass goes a splash of whiskey. “Your parents would be proud at how far you’ve all come.”
“I don’t know about that.” I sit back in my chair and cross my arms. “Not when we still haven’t solved their deaths.”
To this day, we’ve never bought the story behind our parents’ deaths. The cops claimed murder-suicide. According to their official report, our parents were grieving Jack’s death, and they ended things. Which is a fucking lie.
Our father would have never killed our mother or himself. They were a mess after Jack, but they had three young sons to raise. This town believes us, but the lies spread by the cops persist. Like most of the other crimes in the county, the death of our parents was filed away, and the case is considered closed. But not by me. I want the truth to be known. The killer to be caught. I won’t rest until that happens.
I just don’t have any solid leads. Yet.
Vaughn shifts in the chair, gives my laptop a side-eye. “You’ve been looking back into it.” A statement. Not a question.
“I’ll never stop,” I grit out. Now that Jack’s killer is taken care of, I’m free to turn my attention to my parents’.
“Cole.” Vaughn stares at me long and hard. “Your brothers know you’re doing this?”
I knock back the whiskey. “They don’t need to know.”
Vaughn’s mustache thins as he flattens his lips. “You’ve hired a PI. You’ve used Langford. I don’t know what you think you’ll find on the internet.”
“We need someone on the inside. The cops have that file. They closed the case with a hundred fucking lies, and they know it. If we had that case file…”
Our one connection, our father’s friend on the force, Deputy Langford, was banned from the case and fired shortly thereafter. The Tempest Police Department refuses to release the details or the case file. Another way Hale continues to fuck with us.
I look at my uncle. “There’s nothing else you remember?” My uncle is the one that found them in the distillery that night. Covered in blood. One shot through the left side of my father’s face. One between my mother’s eyes. The gun my mother kept in the drawer beside her computer was missing along with the case of bullets. I’ve poked and prodded his memory relentlessly.
He lets out a sigh and says, “I’ve told you all I know, son. I was headed from my house to the distillery for our monthly meeting. Eight p.m. sharp. Your father said he had something to show me. When I walked in, your folks were lying there, and there was something, words maybe, scrawled on the copper still, but… After that moment, I blanked.” The stoic look masking his face slips, revealing pain. “Seeing your brother’s body… It’s a memory I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”
