Bartholomew—after Mrs. McClintock’s no-good nephew—Jacques—for the Parisian hotel clerk that had been quite rude to Nash Larabee’s mama—was a suspected murderer.

Specifically of Callie Kendall. But Bootleg Springs was open to giving him credit for more.

Yep. Ol’ Bartholomew had drifted into town in a disreputable rusted out pickup truck and stirred up trouble for the six months he’d been in town. He bounced around from job to job, with his gold tooth—courtesy of Trent McCulty—and his scraggly hair, credit to Millie Waggle.

Rhett Ginsler suggested that Bartholomew walked with a limp from a bar fight he’d started in his younger days. Those reporters ate it up.

His alleged ties to the Indiana mafia—also a work of fiction—made him untouchable by local law enforcement. And that’s how the squirrely, slimy, no-good Bartholomew escaped prosecution.

I enjoyed the hell out of watching the manufactured drama play out. On Monday, Maribel reported seeing Mrs. Varney cozied up with a blogger from West Virginia Needs to Know at the Pop In. This particular blogger had artlessly referred to us Bootleggers as “the grammatically incorrect, poor cousins of respectable hillbillies”.

On Tuesday, Mayor Hornsbladt invited the reporter from The Middlebury Courier into his office for a one-on-one.

Wednesday, when the crowd of press at the foot of my driveway asked, I told them I had no comment on Bartholomew Jacques.

Everyone who spoke to the press did so on the condition of anonymity.

By Thursday, there were headlines all across the state from media outlets that were too busy to do any real fact-checking questioning why law enforcement was ignoring a suspect. It was a real treat to see the pictures of Wade Zirkel in a Halloween costume circulating as the mysterious and potentially dangerous Bartholomew. Sierra Hayes had hit the fake social media profiles out of the park.

Clarabell slid a plate of scrambled eggs with a small mountain of bacon in front of me and an egg white omelet with tomatoes and peppers in front of Jonah. We were celebrating the ridding of our town with a pre-work breakfast at Moonshine Diner.

“Ya see, everyone’s been scared to death of mob retaliation,” Clarabell recited to me as she topped off our coffees. “That’s exactly what I told the dumbass from the Perrinville Times.”

My driveway and the street in front of my house were blissfully empty this morning thanks to the backlash that had been just as swift as the viral spread of Bartholomew Jacques.

It was their own damn fault. Jonah handed his phone over, cueing up another video of a disgraced journalist jogging down the street with a crowd of his peers shoving cameras and phones in his face. The harassers had become the harassees. “How did an entire West Virginian town concoct a fake murder suspect and convince you to write about it?” the reporters wanted to know.

“No comment,” the man in question snapped, pulling the hood of his coat up and speeding his jog to a near sprint.

Detective Connelly’s derisive press conference questioning the irresponsibility of the press had been toasted by half the town watching at The Lookout. We’d all also shot the TV the middle finger when the asshole called us out for making a mockery of his investigation. Callie Kendall was ours more than she’d ever be his. The only thing we’d made a mockery of was a few dozen morons too aggressive to do their jobs properly.

Yep. We Bootleggers considered the entire situation a win. Nicolette had doled out shots of whiskey like it was a holiday when the news vans packed up. And June was quietly being lauded a town hero.

“Mornin’, Bowie. Jonah.”

I glanced up from the phone to see Sheriff Harlan Tucker sliding into the booth next to Jonah.

“Morning, sheriff,” I greeted him warily, feeling the familiar knots tie themselves together in my stomach. We’d been close once. He’d taken me to get my driver’s license, and I’d spent every Thanksgiving at his table since I could remember. Still did. But it was different now.

Clarabell reappeared with a mug and a coffee pot. “Breakfast today, sheriff?” She was all business now. None of us were keen on the idea of letting him know about our involvement. Our lips were zipped.

“Just coffee. Thanks,” he told Clarabell.

The sheriff took a sip, taking his time to warm up to his point.

“Cold one today,” he said.

“Yessir,” I agreed. Winter had indeed gotten her hooks into Bootleg early this year.

“Sure is,” Jonah said, shooting what the fuck eye daggers in my direction.

“You boys know anything about this Bartholomew Jacques business?” Sheriff Tucker asked real casual like. As if all he were after was a little early morning conversation.

We knew better.

“I always count on you to be honest with me, son,” he told me.

Ah, hell. That knife twisted nice and neat in my chest, exactly like he’d meant it to.

Jonah shoved a huge bite of omelet into his face so he couldn’t be counted on to reply.

Sheriff Tucker brushed his fingers over his mustache. It was whiter now than it had been during our last serious conversation. We were all getting older. Yet I still felt like a No-Good Bodine Boy around him.

“Seems like the Bartholomew business cleared up our little infestation problem,” I observed, not answering his question directly.

The mustache twitched.

“Seems like,” he agreed. “How about you, Jonah? You settling in all right?”

Jonah had just shoveled another forkful into his mouth. “Yesh-her,” he said.

Sheriff Tucker grunted. He was watching me like he was expecting me to spill my guts.

“Hey, sheriff. You hear about that armed robbery in Perrinville?” Clarabell appeared at our table, swooping in to save the day.

Jonah and I shared a look across the table. I didn’t much like lying. Even if it was only by omission. But there was no way in hell that I was telling the man that his daughter was the diabolical genius behind scaring off the press.

Clarabell and the sheriff shot the shit for a few minutes before she puttered off to serve up carbs and gossip for the rest of the breakfast crowd.

“Well, boys. I’d better be on my way,” he told us, sliding back out of the booth.

“Have a good one,” I said, giving him a nod that I hoped didn’t say sorry about helping orchestrate a town-wide mutiny.

Jonah slumped back against the booth when the front door jingled, signaling his departure.

“I feel like I just narrowly avoided getting called to the principal’s office,” he said. “No offense.”

Grimly I pushed my plate aside and pulled out my phone.

Cassidy responded immediately.

I smirked.

“Man, when are you going to ask her out?” Jonah asked.

I put my phone away. “Shut up.”

It was Jonah’s turn to smirk. “Anyone in the family come up with anything about the week Callie disappeared?” he asked.

I shook my head. “You ever tried to remember anything that happened twelve years ago? I remember finding out she was missing. I remember the mess with police and reporters and search teams afterward. That’s all etched in my brain.”

I pushed my eggs around my plate, no longer feeling like celebrating the eviction of the press.

“But everything else?” I continued. “Dad leaving? Mom sending us to stay with Gibs that night? I’ve got nothing. Scar says she’s comin’ up empty, too. Who knows about Jameson and Gibs? Gibs didn’t have much to do with Mom and Dad after he moved out, so I doubt he’s got anything to add.”

“Someone will remember something,” Jonah said.

“You get a side of Pollyanna with your egg whites?”

“Nah. Secrets don’t keep. Sooner or later someone remembers something.”