December 17, Wednesday
capperequipment that seals the bottle with a cork, screw cap, or synthetic closure
THE TOURbus pulled into Goldenrod's parking lot, and my stomach clenched with anxiety. Through the large front windows, I could see Dylan behind the bar, pouring samples for a group of tourists. The December sunlight caught his golden hair, and for a moment I was transported back to summer, when everything had seemed simpler.
"Forty-five minutes," I announced to my group—a corporate retreat from Indianapolis. "Meet back at the bus."
They filed off, clutching brochures and chattering excitedly. I hesitated, watching them stream through the heavy wooden doors.
It was time.
I took a deep breath and walked inside.
The tasting room was exactly as I remembered—exposed brick walls, polished wood floors, the warm scent of bourbon mingling with vanilla and oak. Dylan looked up from the bar and saw me. His hand paused mid-pour, surprise flickering across his face. He waved, offering a tentative smile.
I waved back, my heart hammering as I crossed the floor toward him. In the corner, I noticed Jessica and Portia sitting at a small table, their heads bent over what looked like financial reports in binders. Jessica's expression was pinched with worry, while Portia tapped aggressively at her phone.
"Hey," I said when I reached the bar. "How are you doing?"
Dylan opened his mouth to respond, but before he could speak, the front door burst open with enough force to make everyone in the room turn and stare.
A stocky man walked in, sporting a detective's badge clipped to his belt. Two uniformed police officers flanked him, their expressions professionally neutral. The cheerful holiday atmosphere evaporated instantly.
"I'm looking for Boyd Biggs," the detective announced, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent tasting room.
Dylan's face went pale. "What's this about?"
Jessica pushed to her feet, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. Portia's face reddened as she frantically tapped at her phone—calling her father, presumably.
The detective pulled out a leather wallet and flipped it open to display his credentials. "Detective Oakley Hall, Lexington Police. I have an arrest warrant for James Biggs, also known as Boyd Biggs."
My mind started clicking through the pieces, assembling the puzzle Octavia and I had been working on. James Biggs, the brother who'd supposedly drowned. The close resemblance. If what the detective had said was true…
"There must be some mistake—" Jessica started, but her voice faltered.
"Where is Boyd Biggs?" Detective Hall repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.
A door opened at the back of the tasting room, and Boyd appeared. He walked toward the detective with the slow, resigned gait of a man who'd been expecting this moment for years. His eyes scanned the room, taking in his wife's shocked face, his daughter's panic, his son's confusion. Then they landed on me.
Recognition. Regret. And something that looked like relief.
"James Biggs," Detective Hall said formally, "you're under arrest for identity fraud and related charges." He began reading the Miranda rights, the words sounding surreal in the bourbon distillery's elegant tasting room.
Tourists stood frozen, phones out, filming everything. Dylan gripped the edge of the bar so hard his knuckles turned white. Jessica swayed slightly, and Portia grabbed her mother's arm to steady her.
Before the officer could cuff him, Boyd—James—stepped toward me and pressed an envelope into my hand.
"This will explain everything," he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm sorry, Bernadette."
Then he turned to face his family. "I'm so very sorry to all of you."
Detective Hall guided him toward the door, one hand on his elbow. The uniformed officers followed. When the door closed behind them, a deafening silence fell over the tasting room.
"Everyone out," Jessica's voice cut through the shocked stillness. "The distillery is closed. Please leave immediately."
Staff members appeared to usher confused tourists toward the exit. Dylan stood behind the bar looking shell-shocked, his face ashen. Portia had tears streaming down her cheeks.
Jessica's eyes locked on me, and I watched her process the envelope in my hands. "You," she said. "Private room. Now."
