The bus pulled into the tour office parking lot, and passengers began gathering their belongings—gift shop bags, brochures, the occasional souvenir bottle. They filed off with cheerful goodbyes and promises to leave good reviews online.
"Great tour, Bernadette!" an older woman called as she dropped a bill into the tip jar. "You made bourbon interesting even for someone who doesn't drink!"
"Thank you," I called back with a genuine smile.
The bus emptied until only Jett, Naomi, and I remained. Jett shifted into gear and pulled back onto the road toward the campground. In the front seat, Naomi and Jett talked quietly—something about Christmas plans.
I kept my eyes down, studying my notes as if they contained secrets instead of the same information I'd been reciting for months.
The turn into Happy Trails Campground came quickly. Jett parked near my van, and I stood, gathering my bag and water bottle.
"Goodnight," I said, not quite meeting either of their eyes.
"Night, Bernadette," Jett replied.
Naomi lifted her hand in a vague wave, already turned back toward Jett.
I climbed down and walked across the gravel to my van, hearing the bus door hiss shut behind me. The biting cold hurried my steps.
Inside the van, my gaze caught on the tiny rosemary Christmas tree on the shelf. The plant Jett had brought me, a small gesture of kindness when I'd needed it.
I brought my face close to the plant and inhaled the clean herbal scent deeply. For clarity.
Then I exhaled slowly, watching my breath fog in the cold air.
Ten more days in Kentucky. Ten more days of tours and cold nights. Ten more days of waiting for news about a father who was probably at the bottom of a river.
Then I'd go back to Arizona, finish my degree, and try to build something resembling a normal life.
I set the rosemary tree back on the shelf and pinched one of the soft needles gently, releasing another burst of the uplifting scent into the van's interior.
Ten more days.
I could survive ten more days.
December 22, Monday
bottled-in-bondbourbon bottled under strict government guidelines, including 100 proof and 4-year minimum aging
CLAY'S FERRYBridge stretched across the Kentucky River like a steel sentinel, its girders dark against the sullen December sky. I stood on the muddy bank below, bundled in every warm layer I owned, watching a massive crane position itself over the water.
Octavia Guy stood beside me, her expensive wool coat looking out of place in the rural setting among industrial equipment and emergency vehicles. She squeezed my arm gently, a gesture of support that didn't require words.
Detective Oakley Hall directed the operation from a makeshift command post, speaking into a radio and coordinating with the dive team. His breath formed clouds in the frigid air as he issued instructions with calm authority.
Naomi was there too, positioned strategically with her camera and notebook, documenting everything for the piece she was writing. I'd seen Jett arrive with her, but he hung back from the main scene.
Two television news crews had set up their equipment along the bank, cameras trained on the crane and the murky water below. They'd approached me earlier, microphones thrust forward, asking if I was related to the victim.
I'd declined to answer as politely as I could manage, then Octavia had chased them away with strong words.
The crane's motor roared to life, its cables going taut as it began to pull. The water churned and broke as something large emerged from the depths—metal and mud, unrecognizable at first, dripping river water and trailing vegetation.
Slowly, a car took shape. An old sedan, its paint stripped away by decades underwater, its windows opaque with sediment. The crane lifted it higher, water streaming from every crevice, and swung it carefully toward the bank.
A diver in a black wetsuit waded closer as the car settled on the muddy shore, still draining. He peered through the driver's side window, wiping away enough grime to see inside.
Then he turned and shouted, his voice carrying across the cold air: "There's a body inside!"
