“Sure, sure. Back to you,” she says before I can deflect more. “Is James actually brain dead? Are you okay? What do you need? You want me to come stay with you for a while? You need me to kick his ass? Hide a body? I’ve watched enough true crime documentaries to make it look like a tragic accident.”
Her rapid-fire questions pull a small laugh from me. “Easy there. He’s not worth an elaborate cover-up. But I’ll keep those last few offers in my back pocket, just in case. Right now, I’m okay. Ask me again in an hour, and I’ll probably be sobbing. But no need to book a flight just yet.”
She exhales sharply. “Fine, I won’t pry. But I need to know you’re actually okay. I’m so sorry, Juliette.”
“Honestly, I’m…managing. Distraction seems to be the name of the game. I didn’t call you to freak you out,” I reassure her. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Oh, sweetheart. You’re strong just like your mama was. Life goes on, but you already know that,” she says softly. “Hey, why don’t you come visit me soon? You still haven’t been out here.”
I pause for a moment, balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear while I fumble for my wallet. I never made it to Scotland to visit because James and his family always had my schedule packed, leaving little room for anything else.
“I do have the summer off in a few weeks—perks of being a teacher. Let me think about it?”
“Of course! You know I’d love to have you for as long as I can. Just tell me when.”
We chat for a few more minutes, the conversation light and easy, a welcome break from the mess swirling in my head. By the time I load the last of the groceries into my trunk, I’m a little steadier. Maybe I won’t completely unravel today.
I skip turning on the radio as I pull out of the lot. My thoughts are already loud enough without adding a soundtrack.Instead, I focus on the soft rustling from the trunk, the sound of my impulsive grocery haul shifting with every turn. I really should’ve eaten before shopping. At this point, I have no clue what I even bought. Bananas? Pickles? A chaotic mix of regret and desperation?
Then my phone rings, and for some inexplicable reason, I justknowit’s James.
four
KNOX
The still is running hot, the scent of malt and oak is thick in the air, and Callan’s already pacing like a man on a mission to ruin my morning.
“Shipment’s late again,” he groans, waving his phone in my direction. “That’s the third time this month. I swear?—”
“Callan,” I interrupt, calmly. “Breathe. It’s eight in the bloody morning.”
My brother tosses me a glare that would hold more weight if I didn’t know him better. The lines etched between his brows are deep, aging him beyond his mere twenty-seven years. Most days, he’s easygoing to the point of reckless. Always the first to take the leap, the risk, the shot. But when it comes to the family business, he tightens up and wears the worry like a second skin.
He runs a hand through his mess of hair, leaving it sticking up in wild directions. Morning light spills through the distillery windows, catching on the copper stills and rows of tasting glasses. Normally, I’d find the whole scene peaceful, but today it reminds me of how far behind we are with the festival prep.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I don’t want to look. I already know who it is, but my hand moves anyway.
Hallie.
She always had a gift for timing, waiting until I’m buried in the thick of work and barely breathing through deadlines. Then she strikes.
I stare at it for a second longer than I should, then I flip the damn thing face down on the counter like that might shut her out.
It never does.
“Not going to answer that?” Callan asks, his irritation momentarily redirected.
I shake my head. “Nothing worth hearing.”
The phone stops, then immediately starts again.Persistent as always.
“Hallie again?” His voice softens slightly. For all his bluster, my brother knows when to tread carefully.
I nod once, picking up the phone and jabbing at the screen to silence it.
“Two years of this.” He shakes his head. “You’d think she’d have found someone else to torment by now. She already took enough of your money to live like a damn queen. What more does she want?”
“A stake in the distillery,” I answer flatly.
