the Benefiel house. Seems the neighbors keep a close watch on each other and noticed two people ringing the doorbell and peering in windows. They were gone by the time authorities arrived on the scene.”
Shelby’s hand tightened in mine.
“So we’ve got an unsolved vehicular homicide, suspicious activity at a retired teacher’s home, and now someone trying to chase Shelby down in a car the day after she goes looking for the dead girl and the teacher,” Cassidy summarized. “That’s more than coincidental.”
“What we’ve got is a whole lot of suspicion and not one scrap of solid evidence,” Sheriff Tucker said.
“What do we do?” I asked.
“We remain watchful,” he said, his eyes skimming every face around the table until he got a nod out of each one of us. “We stay together. We let the police do their job.”
“Where did Mrs. Benefiel go?”
“We tracked her to a golf resort in South Carolina. Seems her husband and some family are there now.”
“They need to be warned,” she insisted.
“Already have been. And authorities are watching the house.”
“I can’t just sit back and wait,” Shelby insisted. She got a lot of agreeing nods from everyone else including Nadine.
“If these events are connected to Callie Kendall’s murder,” Sheriff Tucker said, “we can’t afford to let word get out and have a whole town gossipin’ about the possibilities. Whoever is behind all of this is already nervous. And because of that, I can’t have you, young lady,” he pointed at Shelby, “or you, JuneBug, doing any more digging. Do I make myself clear?”
“As long as you and everyone else involved is taking this seriously,” Shelby said, stroking a hand over Billy Ray’s silky ear.
“This is bullshit,” Gibson snapped. I couldn’t help but agree with him.
46
Shelby
At first, being surrounded by people was entertaining. But the suffocating Shelby Watch soon began to take its toll. Not only was I never alone, but Jonah and I were never alone either. News of the “incident” on Mountain Road had spread. No one outside the Bodine, Tucker, and Thompson clans knew that there might be more to it than a stupid, dangerous prank.
But within our ranks, everyone was aware and vigilant. And very, very present. Babysitting me seemed to have become a new Bootleg Springs pastime. I was looking forward to the triathlon tomorrow just to slip my guards for a few hours.
Right now, Gibson was kicked back on the couch with Jonah’s mother, Jenny, watching some diving competition on TV. But even my noise-canceling headphones couldn’t block out their presence.
Gibson was pumping off pissed-off vibes while Jenny was curled into herself. She’d tried to draw him out and was rewarded with the patented Gibson brush-off. A combination grunt and shrug that made it clear he wasn’t looking to be friendly.
And I was just tired enough of dissecting things to let them both stew.
I was tired.
Bowie and Cassidy’s wedding was tomorrow, the triathlon. The end of summer. I’d scheduled my interview with the doctoral program director for a week after the triathlon. The tension in me was taut like a wire.
I wanted to talk to Jonah about us. About the possibility of an “us” beyond August. But it was hard to have the conversation when we were surrounded by parents and siblings. And between the scare on the bike, the training, and polishing my dissertation, I was exhausted every night.
I spared the couch occupants another glance.
Gibson had hardly been seen since news broke about Callie’s murder. His brothers said he was locked in his shop. But he had shadows under his eyes and a beard that was days beyond well kept. He’d lost weight as well.
Jonah walked in with Billy Ray on his heels. He paused in the doorway, the tension everyone exuded acted as a forcefield.
“Everything okay?” he asked with suspicion.
“Just great,” I lied, tilting my head in the direction of the couch.
A diver on TV executed a perfect maneuver, and neither Gibson nor Jenny reacted.
Abruptly, Gibson pushed off the couch and walked past Jonah into the kitchen. He returned with a beer and cracked it open.
Jonah and I both watched as he sat back down and guzzled it.
Gibson didn’t drink. Ever.
“Gibs. What’s going on?” Jonah asked.
I braced myself for an explosion. A denial.
“Our father’s a murdering bastard. And we’re all just supposed to be fine with that,” he said, his tone flat and dull.
Jenny winced, looking surprised.
Jonah opened his mouth to speak, but I shook my head, warning him off.
“He killed a sixteen-year-old girl who had her whole life