As it turned out, every damn body in the barn had a plan. Otto Holt and Jimmy Bob Prosser wanted to confine the press to a paddock-like area. Old Judge Carwell suggested enacting Title 57 in the town’s charter that allowed a majority of white, land-owning males to ban groups of people from Bootleg Springs boundaries. It was completely illegal, but no one had gotten around to scrubbing the law from the books.

I made a mental note to talk to Devlin about that one.

Clarabell, the beloved owner of Moonshine Diner, showed her frustrations by suggesting that some food poisoning might encourage the undesirables to go the hell home.

I was about ready to announce my presence and put an end to the foolishness when Bowie put his hand on my leg.

“Hang on a second,” he told me quietly.

I was too busy reeling from the physicality to remember to jump to my feet and call my fellow townsfolk dumbasses. I suddenly wished I’d just gone on home to George and Eddie.

“Y’all, my daughter has an idea that I think would work fine.”

“Is that my mother?” I hissed.

Bowie squeezed my thigh again.

Yep. Sure enough, Nadine Tucker stood up in the third row and hauled my sneaky-ass sister to her feet.

“Go ahead, June,” my mom said encouragingly.

My sister shoved her hands in her jeans. “A reporter’s primary responsibility is to search out and disseminate facts from fallacies,” she began.

“English, Juney,” Cheyenne Hastings called out from across the aisle.

I could feel my sister rolling her eyes. “If a reporter is only divulging easily refutable lies, their perceived usefulness would come to a swift and unceremonious end.” As usual, June’s dumbing it down had the opposite effect.

I could hear crickets chirping in the barn while Bootleg Springs tried to translate.

“What she’s saying is if we use these reporters to spread absolute bullshit, they’ll get recalled to whatever rock they crawled out from under,” my mom translated.

The crowd began to murmur, and the enthusiasm warmed.

“It’s a misinformation campaign. Just like Jedidiah Bodine did during the ‘shine running years,” Mrs. Varney cackled.

Mayor Hornsbladt stroked his silver beard like a cartoon villain. “Why, June Tucker. I think that’s a mighty fine idea.”

“Yes. I know that,” June stated.

Mom elbowed her in the side.

“I mean, thank you,” June reluctantly corrected herself.

The buzzing of the crowd hit deafening levels, and the mayor had to smack a clawfoot hammer on the crate under his feet. He hit it too hard and it collapsed, spilling him onto the floor.

He sprang back up and hammered the wall for a minute until everyone quieted down again. “Y’all, we gotta keep this orderly. Now, let’s strategize all strategic-like. Who’s got an idea?”

Hands shot up all over the barn, and the chatter returned.

“I can’t sit here and let them obstruct a police investigation,” I told Bowie. His hand was still on my knee.

“They’re not obstructing the police. They’re obstructing a bunch of disrespectful outsiders who think we’re all stupid, toothless hillbillies. There’s nothing illegal about not being truthful to a reporter,” he insisted.

I gritted my teeth. This whole thing was chapping my procedural ass. “How often do y’all call secret meetings?” I asked him.

“Only when absolutely necessary,” he said evasively.

“And are my mom and sister usually in attendance?”

He smirked at me. “They’re usually the ones callin’ the meetings.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Remember when your dad couldn’t prove that Donna Tarper’s husband was knocking her around?” Bowie asked.

My eyes narrowed. “Yeah.” My dad had a big, squishy heart. He couldn’t stand to see anyone or anything hurt. Knowing that one of his citizens was getting the crap beat out of her on the regular never sat well with him. But Donna had refused to press charges.

“Remember how the husband suddenly attacked his neighbor Pete? And that mysterious video footage of the fight just happened to show up at the station?”

I closed my eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

Bowie nodded solemnly. “Your mama called that meeting and made us put our heads together to figure out how to catch the sonofabitch and make sure he got locked up.”

I rubbed a finger between my eyebrows where a headache was sprouting.

“Feelin’ left out?” Bowie asked.

“Yeah. A little.”

“Now you know how it feels,” he said smugly.

“Are we back to that again?” I was starting to get my hackles up.

“No, Cass. We’re not. But there are some things it’s better if law enforcement doesn’t know about. Who’s gonna get hurt if we run these idiots out of town by telling them a couple of tall tales?”

“That’s not the point, Bowie. Right is right and wrong is wrong.”

“Honey, sometimes there’s a whole lot of something in between right and wrong.”

I didn’t like that one bit. Law and order kept people safe. It defined exactly what was good and what was bad. It gave people answers, truthful ones. The law made the consequences of our actions clear.

If you stole your neighbor’s cable, you paid a $500 fine. You laundered money, you spent up to a year in jail. Blowing up shit that’s not yours on the 4th of July could have you serving up to two years and shelling out a cool $10,000.

We had rules.

“You know I have to tell my dad about this,” I told him.

“No, you don’t,” Bowie countered. He pointed up to where my mom was sitting. “That’s on her. Not you.”

I opened my mouth and then closed it again. He may have a point.

“Look, if it’s bothering you, I can tell you that nothing real illegal has ever come out of any of these meetings,” he told me.

“Define ‘real illegal.’”

“I’d prefer not to.” He winked at me.

“Imma tell that shithead in the corduroy pants that I have evidence that Big Foot took Callie Kendall,” Wade Zirkel called out, catching my attention.

I snorted. I couldn’t help it. The idea of Wade Zirkel strutting up to The Charlottesburg Post claiming a sasquatch had carried off Callie was laughable.

“Hang on, y’all. We gotta be careful and make sure that definitely we’re spreading bad info,” Sonny Fullson, the shaggy-haired owner of Build a Shine—Bootleg’s answer to the popular Build A Bear chain—said, coming to his feet.

“Are you saying you think it’s possible that Harry from Harry and the Hendersons walked on into Bootleg and carried a girl off?” the mayor asked, appalled.

Sonny shook his head. “No, sir. I’m asking whether we’re leading them to or away from Jonah Bodine, Sr.? May he rest in peace.”

It was Bowie’s turn to scowl. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked like he wanted to hit Sonny with Mayor Hornsbladt’s hammer.

“My daddy, may he rest in peace, did not have anything to do with Callie Kendall’s disappearance,” Scarlett said, climbing up on her bench and glaring daggers at the crowd.

“How’d he end up with her bloody sweater then? May he rest in peace,” someone yelled.

I slapped my hand on Bowie’s leg when I felt him tense next to me. He was coiled to strike.

“Easy, tiger,” I said quietly.

“Y’all know she’s not dead. She ran off with some guy.”

“If she were still alive why ain’t no one heard from her since?”

“She’s definitely dead.”

“But do we know that Jonah Bodine did it? I mean, the man was a drunk, but does that mean he’s a murderer? May he rest in peace.”

Devlin plucked Scarlett off the bench and motioned for the mayor’s microphone. “I think it’s important that everyone understands that this plan can only move forward if it doesn’t interfere with the ongoing police investigation.”

Finally. A voice of reason.

Bowie was still vibrating with pissed-offness next to me.

“We can come up with a solution that doesn’t require us to try Jonah Bodine, Sr.—uh, may he rest in peace—in the court of popular opinion,” Devlin answered.

“Huh?” someone grunted nearby.

Devlin straightened his tie. “What I’m saying is let’s come up with a story or stories that won’t derail the police investigation. It’s their job to find out who did what. So let’s make it our job to get these loafer-wearing, name-calling vultures out of our town.”

It started as a slow clap and built until people were stomping their boots and whistling through their fingers. Devlin McCallister didn’t know it, but he’d just given his first campaign speech.

At least I could count on him to keep things as legal as possible.

Now was a good time to leave, before I learned anything that definitely had to end up on my dad’s desk. “Looks like you all have things under control around here. I’m gonna get back to town and make sure no one else is undermining the legal community’s authority.”

I half-rose, half-scurried around Bowie into the aisle, not wanting to draw any more attention to myself. I for sure didn’t want my mom and June to see me. That was a conversation I wasn’t eager to have.

Gee, Mom, how long have you been running secret operations behind Dad’s back?

And June? How could my own sister keep this shit from me?

That headache was blooming like a damn fried onion at a steak place.

I ducked out the door and back into the crisp night, leaving the warmth of community at my back.

Looking around at the army of parked cars, I shoved my hands into the pockets of my coat. I sighed long and hard, watching my breath cloud up the ink-black sky above me. Their methods might be insane. But one thing I was sure of, Bootleg Springs was the best place in the whole wide world to live.

“You’re not telling your daddy, are you?” Bowie’s voice was quiet behind me.

I kicked at the frosted grass under my feet. “No. I won’t tell him,” I said finally.

He came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. When he turned me around to face him, I thought that it was finally happening. That Bowie Bodine was going to kiss the cold out of me under this sliver of moon.

And then he did.

His lips brushed my cheek. And then his thumb brushed the spot where his mouth had touched. “Thanks, Cass.”

I was still standing there when he went back inside.