"Let me find his prison photo."
She navigated to another website and after several minutes, a photograph appeared on her screen.
My breath caught.
The face staring back at me looked eerily similar to Boyd Biggs's high school photo. Same bone structure, same dark hair, same intense eyes. Brothers, clearly—but more than that. They could have been twins.
"They look almost identical," I murmured.
"Something doesn't add up," Octavia said, reaching for her phone. "I have a contact—my sister Linda's friend, actually. Detective Oakley Hall with the local police. I'm not wild about the way he looks at my sister, but he's good at what he does." Then she stopped and looked at me. "If that's what you want."
"Call your detective," I said quietly. "I need answers."
December 10, Wednesday
barrel proofbourbon that is bottled at the proof it came out of the barrel, without dilution
THE TOURbus rumbled into Goldenrod Distillery's parking lot and rolled to a stop. The sprawling building stood like a monument to Kentucky tradition. Through the large front windows, I could see Dylan behind the bar, pouring samples for a group of tourists.
Even after our conciliatory conversation, my stomach knotted at the thought of going inside. Making small talk. Pretending everything was normal when suspicions about his father were running through my mind on a loop.
"The tour inside lasts approximately forty minutes," I announced to my group—a corporate team from Indianapolis on a holiday outing. "You'll experience a guided tasting of Goldenrod's signature expressions, and the gift shop offers exclusive bottles you won't find anywhere else."
As they filed off the bus, chattering about which bourbons they wanted to try, I hung back. Through the window, Dylan glanced toward the parking lot, probably looking for me. I turned away quickly and ducked around the side of the building.
The December air nipped at my exposed skin. I pulled my jacket tighter and stamped my feet to stay warm.
Footsteps approached from around the corner—measured, deliberate. As if I'd conjured him up, Boyd Biggs appeared, his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. He was so lost in thought he nearly walked right past me.
"Mr. Biggs," I said, the words escaping before I could stop them.
He jerked to a halt, his head swiveling toward me. Recognition flashed across his face, followed immediately by something else. Something I couldn't quite identify. Wariness? Guilt? Fear?
For a long moment, we stared at each other. His mouth opened as if he might say something—an explanation, an excuse, a greeting. His eyes held mine with an intensity that made my pulse quicken.
Then he closed his mouth, gave a single tight nod, and kept walking.
I watched him disappear around the far corner of the building, his footsteps fading into the distance. My heart hammered against my ribs, and I realized my hands had curled into fists inside my jacket pockets.
Something wasn't right.
The way he'd just looked at me—like a man with secrets.
In bourbon tasting, aficionados talked about "a lie in the glass"—when something about the appearance or nose promised one thing, but the palate delivered something entirely different. A disconnect between expectation and reality that marked inferior or fraudulent spirits.
Standing there in the frigid air, watching the space where Boyd Biggs had disappeared, I felt that same disconnect.
December 11, Thursday
single barrelbourbon bottled from one barrel without blending with others
THE LAUNDRYroom had become our unofficial craft studio. Dryers tumbled in the background, filling the space with humid warmth that fogged the windows. Poppy sat across from me at the folding table, her red curls escaping from a lopsided ponytail, her tongue poking out in concentration as she worked the crochet hook through loops of cotton yarn.
"Like this?" She held up her attempt at a potholder—a lumpy square with several dropped stitches and one corner that had somehow gained extra rows.
"Perfect," I said, meaning it. "Your grandma's going to love it."
"It looks like a mutant pancake."
