cleansing shower. It washed away the worst of the poison. Reminded me I wasn’t that girl anymore. That it had never been my fault.
His strength fed mine. The power I’d always had inside of me. The courage that had allowed me to live a life after being so brutally abused. I wasn’t a victim anymore. And I wasn’t going to allow my mother to continue harming me all these years later.
Closing my eyes, I wrapped my arms around Gibson’s waist and faced the truth. Owned it. And decided not to let it break me.
I pulled away, feeling shaky, but whole. “Thank you.”
“For what?” He had tears in his eyes.
“For loving me.”
He leaned his forehead against mine. “I’ll always love you. Honey, are you serious about this? Are you okay?”
“Yes. I couldn’t remember. I’d locked it all away. But I’m sure of this, Gibson. I can see it now. It was my mother who hurt me.”
The license plate still bothered me. Not that it was from Virginia. Plenty of Virginia drivers must go through this area. One of them losing a license plate—probably in an accident—wasn’t unusual. But why would it have that frame? The one my mother had used to project the image of the proud parent with an accomplished child?
“Henrietta, do you remember where you found the things in your collection?”
She nodded an enthusiastic yes.
“All of them?”
She nodded again. It was clear her collection was important to her.
“Can you please tell me where you found this?” I pointed to the license plate, afraid to touch it again.
She held up a finger, gesturing for us to wait. From a cabinet, she produced a rolled-up piece of paper. Gibson helped her spread it out on the floor. It was an old map of Bootleg Springs and the surrounding mountains.
We crowded around it and she touched her finger to the spot marked Bootleg Springs.
“Did you find it in town?” Gibson asked.
She shook her head, then traced her finger along one of the roads leading out of town. Tilting her head, she studied the map for a few seconds, as if making sure. Then she stopped her trace and tapped her finger a few times.
“There?” Gibson shifted so he could look more closely. “That’s Mountain Road. That’s where my…”
Henrietta nodded, grabbing the license plate, then took down a basket. She placed the license plate on the map and covered it with rocks, sticks, and pinecones from the basket.
“It was buried when you found it,” he said.
Another nod.
Gibson stared at the license plate like it might burst into flames. “That might be why no one else did. Henrietta, when did you find this? Recently?”
She shook her head and scrunched up her face, her eyes narrowing, as if she was thinking hard. Finally, she held up both hands, splaying her fingers. Then closed them and held up two.
“Twelve. Do you mean twelve years?”
One sharp nod.
I met his eyes, but neither of us spoke. We didn’t have to. His mother had died in an accident on Mountain Road twelve years ago. An accident that might not have been an accident.
This wasn’t a coincidence. This was proof. My parents—probably my mother—had killed Connie Bodine.
37
GIBSON
Callie’s revelation left me reeling.
We packed up the license plate and brought it back to my place. She changed out of her jeans and curled up on the couch with Cash.
“You should take it to the sheriff,” she said, running her hand over Cash’s soft fur.
“How are you so calm?” I asked. She’d just dredged up those godawful memories, but I was the one pacing around the room.
“I feel clear,” she said. “It was like cleaning poison from a wound. It hurt, but now that it’s over, I think I can finally finish healing.”
I knelt in front of her and touched her face. “You’re amazing. Do you know that?”
Her smile soothed some of the rage boiling inside me. “Thanks. So are you.”
I grumbled something incoherent as I stood. “All right, I’ll go see the sheriff. You sure you’re okay? Do you want me to call Shelby or Leah Mae or Scarlett or something?”
“I have Cash to keep me company. I’ll be fine. I think I need a little time.”
Cash’s ears twitched and he opened his eye.
“Good boy. Take care of our girl.”
I was glad Callie was handling things so well. I was proud of her for being strong enough to face her past.
Me, on the other hand—I was fucking done with the whole thing.
I was sick of waiting. Sick of being told we didn’t