"Well," I said finally, forcing brightness into my voice. "Have a nice life, Jett."
The words came out wrong—too formal, too final, too much like goodbye.
"Same," he said, his voice flat as he opened the door for me to disembark.
I gathered my bag and jumped down. I turned and gave him a wave, trying to smile.
He waved back, his expression unreadable.
Then the bus door closed, and he drove away.
I stood in the parking lot watching his taillights disappear, the tip money heavy in my pocket, my heart heavier still.
That was it. Six months of friendship, of growing feelings, of shared moments and quiet understanding—reduced to "have a nice life" and an awkward wave goodbye.
December 29, Monday
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MY PHONErang at nine in the morning, an unfamiliar number with a Lexington area code. I almost didn't answer, but something made me pick up.
"Ms. Waters? This is Meadowbrook Crematory. Your father's remains are ready for pickup."
The words hit me like cold water. I'd known this call was coming—Detective Hall had told me the remains would be released after the medical examiner completed his report—but hearing it made everything suddenly, terribly real.
"I can come today," I managed. "What time?"
An hour later, I pulled into the crematory's parking lot, a stone settling in my stomach. The building was modest and professional, designed to be comforting without being ostentatious. I sat in my van for a full five minutes before forcing myself to go inside.
The owner, a soft-spoken man in his sixties, greeted me with practiced sympathy. He led me to a small viewing room where a simple urn sat on a polished table. Brass, about ten inches tall, engraved with my father's name.
"I need to be honest," I said, my throat tight. "I can't pay for the cremation today. But I'll set up a payment plan. I'll pay it off over time, whatever it takes."
The owner shook his head. "The services have already been paid for. In full."
I stared at him. "By who?"
"The Biggs family. Mrs. Jessica Biggs called last week and covered all expenses."
Dylan's mother. The woman whose husband had turned out to be an imposter, whose marriage had been built on a lie. But it spoke volumes about her loyalty to her husband that she would pay for his brother's burial.
Gratitude rushed through me. "That was incredibly kind."
"They seem like good people going through a difficult time," the owner said. "Much like yourself."
He left me alone with the urn. I picked it up carefully, surprised by its weight. This was all that remained of my father, ashes in a brass container.
I carried the urn to my van and sat in the parking lot, holding it in my lap. What was I supposed to do with it? I had no family plot, no permanent home, no place that felt right for laying him to rest.
I hugged the urn close to my chest, feeling tears slip down my cheeks.
"I wish I could've known you," I whispered. "I wish you'd lived. I wish things had been different."
The urn offered no answers, but holding it felt important somehow. A connection to the man who'd given me life, even if he'd never gotten the chance to be part of it.
An idea formed slowly. Boyd had loved the bourbon industry enough to build a life around it. The Kentucky River had taken him, but the river also sustained the bourbon country he'd loved.
I started the van and began driving, following roads I'd traveled dozens of times on tours. I stopped at Wild Turkey, at Four Roses, at Castle & Key—distilleries along the Kentucky River. At each stop, I found public land near the water. I opened the urn and scattered small amounts of ash, watching them drift on the December wind and settle into the grass and the water that made bourbon possible.
