I was cursing myself for not parking in the garage at the back of my lot last night. Now, thanks to Lazy-Ass Past Me, Present Me had to walk out my front door and back down the driveway into a small camera crew.

Jonah, being annoyingly in shape and fueled by anger, had snuck out the back and jogged across town to meet his trail running group at the lake. I debated doing the same but didn’t want to spend the entire day with slush stains down the back of my Dockers. Teenagers were often assholes. As the unfortunate substitute teacher who’d accidentally sat on a chocolate pudding lid learned the hard way last year.

I gave the ragtag news crew another look through the front window. Leah Mae was right. I was the easiest to get to. None of my other siblings had houses this accessible. Hell, Gibson was tucked away on some serious acreage on a mountain. Sneaky-ass reporters wouldn’t be able to get within a half-mile of his house.

Well, I sure as shit wasn’t gonna let some half-assed news crew get me worked up or make me late for work.

I let myself out the front door, locked it, and kept my head down as I hurried to my SUV.

“Mr. Bodine! Did your father kill Callie Kendall?” the dumb motherfucker in the trench coat shouted at me.

My middle finger flexed anxiously, begging to be called to duty. I pretended I hadn’t heard him and slid behind the wheel. I slammed the door on the idiot’s questions, swearing under my breath.

The engine came to life, and I shifted into reverse. Easing down the drive came to an abrupt stop when the news crew crowded onto my driveway blocking my exit.

Leah Mae and Jayme were not going to be happy with what I was about to do. Maybe if I rearranged this guy’s face news would travel and these turkey vultures would leave us alone…or at the very least, gawk at us from a respectable distance.

I rolled my window down, deciding to give them one last chance to live. “Y’all are in my way.”

The guy in the trench coat with the tiny microphone took that as an invitation. He jogged up the side of my vehicle and shoved the mic in my face.

“Mr. Bodine, your father is a person of interest in the disappearance of Callie Kendall. What can you tell us about your father’s involvement with Callie? Were they having an affair? Has your father hurt other girls?”

“Listen here, you piece of—”

“Stop.”

I was cut off by the very authoritative voice of a very peeved deputy. Cassidy—in full uniform—strode around my SUV and got within punching distance of Mr. Lois Lane. “You’re trespassing, sir. I’m going to have to ask all of you to step back onto the sidewalk and show me your IDs.”

The guy with the mic was all smiles. “Officer, I’m just asking Mr. Bodine a few questions. The people have a right to know—”

“The people have a right to back out of their driveways safely without someone tryin’ to crawl up their ass. Now, I’ll ask you again, very nicely, to step onto the sidewalk and let Mr. Bodine pass.”

“Technically, with setbacks, I’m still on the public sidewalk,” the moron argued. Setbacks? Seriously? Did he think Cassidy was some redneck dummy? And was that a hairball on Cassidy’s pants?

“Technically, you should do your research. Back about twelve years ago, when all of you press folks descended on Bootleg, a town ordinance went into effect stating that members of the media could only stand in the center of the public road and only during the hours of 11 p.m. to midnight. And only if they applied for the Press Access Permit to close said public road. Also only if they were very, very respectful and quiet. Now, I’d like to see your Press Access Permit and your ID. I won’t ask nicely again.”

Microphone Man goggled at her and then scrambled away from my vehicle like it was filled with snakes.

Cassidy gave me a cool glance. “Have a nice day, Mr. Bodine.” She brushed the hairball off her pant leg.

God, I loved it when she was Unflappable Deputy.

“You do the same, Deputy Tucker.” I threw her a salute and backed out of my driveway with a big ol’ smile on my face.

I made it to the school without further incident and hustled in through a side door. The school hadn’t changed much since I’d attended. Still had the same industrial tile floors, the same rickety lunch tables on wheels that folded up for floor polishing. The bathrooms were still full of pimple-faced, anxiety-ridden teenagers trying to get through the awkward years.

The library had seen some nice updates thanks to our fundraising. We now had e-readers the students could borrow and a huge online catalog. That, plus the air-conditioning and new reading chairs, made it a popular destination for students.

I turned left after the library and ducked into the main office. This place hadn’t changed a lick since I’d been a student. The same long wooden bench squatted against one wall, waiting for kids in trouble. The wood had hosted the asses of generations of troubled students, including all of my siblings. Opposite it was a faded yellow countertop behind which two administrative assistants ran the show of getting eight hundred seventh- through twelfth-graders a decent education, hot meals, and an idea of what they were gonna do next.

Both the admins were on the phone. Maribel Schilling, with her dyed black beehive, had been holding court in Bootleg Springs High School since my parents attended. No one had any idea how old she was, and most of us were too scared to ask. She was giving someone what for on the phone.

Hung Kim was drumming a pencil on his desktop calendar as he repeatedly said “I’m sorry, no,” into his phone. He worked here twenty hours a week to supplement his drumming career.

“No, you may not speak to Mr. Bodine, and no, we do not have a comment on the investigation. And if you use language like that with me again, I’ll wash your mouth out with goat soap, which tastes significantly worse than regular soap,” Maribel snapped into the phone.

My stomach sank. Reporters camped out at my house, journalists lighting up the phones at school? I was so getting fired for this shit.

I turned for my office, intending to either order lunch and flowers for the admins or draft my resignation when Dottie Leigh poked her head out of her door. “Got a minute, Bowie?” she asked.

Ah, hell. I wasn’t even going to get a chance to resign.

Dottie Leigh was the driving force behind a high school that consistently outperformed our neighboring districts. She believed in teaching methods that made learning accessible to everyone and constantly pushed our staff to be creative in their delivery of material. She suffered no fools and—despite topping out at five foot four—was an absolute shark on the basketball court.

She was good people, and I doubted I’d be able to hold her firing me against her.

“Sure, Dottie Leigh,” I said, tagging along behind her like a puppy.

She gestured to one of the chairs in front of her desk. I sat and scraped my palms over my knees. “I just wanted to say that I’ve really enjoyed working with you here,” I began.

Dottie Leigh leaned on the corner of her desk and crossed her arms, a smile quirking her lips that were painted an almost purple. “Are you quittin’ on me?” she asked, amused.

“No, ma’am. Just trying to thank you for the experience before you fire me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Bowie. I’m not firing you. I’m asking you how we can help you get through this.”

I felt blind gratitude sweep through me. Leah Mae, Cassidy, Dottie Leigh. Each one of them had stepped up for me in a different way today, and I was grateful.

“I’ll understand if I’m too much trouble,” I told her, wanting to make extra sure that she was sure. I was the good guy. I didn’t cause a fuss. I didn’t demand special treatment. I didn’t bring my problems to work with me, ever. And I’d understand if this ugly business changed the way people saw me. If it reminded them of who I came from.

“Bowie,” Dottie Leigh was exasperated now. “You’re not in trouble here. Nothing your father did or didn’t do is going to change your standing in this school.”

That wasn’t entirely correct. I’d basically sat in my own version of a chocolate pudding lid, giving every hormonal smartass in the building a real good reason to mock me.

“I appreciate that, Dottie Leigh,” I said, meeting her gaze. She had brown eyes that, depending on the situation, could make a person feel all warm and fuzzy inside or terrified for their lives. It was a warm and fuzzy instance, thankfully.

“Maribel and Hung are under strict orders on the phones. No comment and nothing gets transferred to you unless it’s a parent or a board member,” she told me. “If there’s anything you or your family need, give a holler. Okay?”

“Will do. Thank you again.” I was beyond grateful.

“Good. Now get on back to work. We have a few hundred hormonal minds to influence today.”

“On it.”

She turned her back on me and pulled the paperwork out of her inbox. I was officially dismissed.

I paused in the doorway and looked back. “Are you sure you don’t want to fire me?”

She threw a wadded-up sticky note in my direction. “Get!” she said, shooing me from her office.

“If one more blooger puts a microphone in my face—”

“What’s a blooger?”

“You know. One of them there people who types stuff on the internet.”

“I think they’re called bloggers.”

“Well, that’s just stupid.”