work. I’m writing my thesis on Bootleg Springs. On how your town chased off a pack of soulless, heartless, loafer-wearing journalistic weasels. GT can vouch for me,” I promised, hoping my brother wouldn’t mind playing character witness for me if need be.
I was staying in Bootleg Springs until I had everything I needed for the best damn thesis ever written on small-town psychology. And the Bodines might as well get used to the idea. Because I wasn’t leaving town without their input in my survey.
Scarlett was still eyeing me like she didn’t trust me any farther than she could pitch me off a dock. “You may come in,” she said finally. “But one wrong move, one word that I don’t like, and I will chase you off my property with my daddy’s shotgun. It’s not loaded, but it still looks real scary. And I can swing it pretty damn hard.”
“Fair enough.”
I followed her inside. The cottage was adorable, tiny, and… stuffed to the rafters. Boxes lined one wall of the skinny hall. I turned sideways and edged past them holding the tray aloft, making my back and shoulders scream in protest. The space opened up into a minuscule kitchen and teeny tiny living room. Both of which were overflowing with stuff. There were more boxes, some labeled, some open with their contents spilling out.
Two clothing racks of smart suits bookended the small couch. Plastic totes and file boxes were built up in a wall in front of the TV.
The cat zoomed in and out of stacks of books and magazines before sinking his claws into a cardboard box labeled Case Files 2010.
“You stop that, Jedidiah,” Scarlett ordered, whipping out a spray bottle and aiming it at the cat.
The cat looked at her, and I swear it grinned. He continued shredding the box until Scarlett sprayed him right in his little face.
He yowled and sprinted off down the hallway.
“If you’d just listen the first time, I wouldn’t have to do that to you,” she called after him.
Devlin, tall and impeccably dressed, was standing in the kitchen with a phone pressed to one ear and a finger in the other. He spoke attorney fluently into the phone and gave me a distracted smile. He dropped a kiss on Scarlett’s head and ducked into the bedroom shutting the door.
“I’m pouring you some sweet tea. But only because it’s polite. Then we can go out on the porch where you can attempt to win me over, at which you will undoubtedly fail, leaving me no choice but to escort you from my property.” She sniffed.
I wasn’t a fan of sweet tea. It made my teeth hurt. But I didn’t feel safe admitting that to her.
“Sweet tea would be so nice,” I said cheerfully.
She glared at me and stomped into the kitchen where she produced glasses and a pitcher of sugar. She put it all on a tray and carried it to the sliding glass door. I pulled it open for her, earning a curt nod, and followed her outside.
This was the kind of experience I needed to absorb and somehow translate in my dissertation. This adherence to tradition and etiquette while still being borderline rude. It was fascinating.
I found myself in a cozy screened-in porch that faced the sparkling waters of the lake that kissed the end of Scarlett’s land.
My hostess dumped the tea on a small table for two. I added the pastries, and we sat.
“So, what the hell do you want?” she asked, pouring the tea. “And don’t even think about asking me one single question about that body those folks in New York found this week.”
“Like I said, I’m not a reporter.” Scarlett was a no-nonsense kind of woman. I liked that about her.
“The hell you say.” She reached for another pastry.
“I’m a grad student, not a journalist,” I told her. “I’m working on a thesis for my PhD in social work.”
She chewed and studied me with suspicion. I felt compelled to keep talking.
“Those writing credentials that Deputy Tucker found? Those are all articles for psychology journals. The academic world puts a lot of weight on being published.”
“So you’re not a weasel reporter?” she clarified.
“I am not,” I promised.
“Well then, what are you doing here?” Scarlett asked, relaxing perceptibly.
“Bootleg Springs managed to eradicate a predatory crowd of journalists in a time when sensational headlines are the only thing that matters for most news organizations. This tiny little town in West Virginia took on some of the biggest publications and blogs in