Page 77 of Just Between Us

“What was that?” JP asked.

“Nothing.” I sighed. “It’s just that every time I think I’m on to something, I uncover the crafty way that he covered his ass. I’ll tell you one thing ... your dad knew what he was doing. If there was a way around a rule, your dad found it. It’s certainly an education.” I flipped through the pages of the notebook, hoping something might jump out at me. “Creative accounting, deceptive marketing, unfair competition, employee manipulation ... it’s all there and it’s all annoyingly legal.” I growled and tossed the notebook back onto my desk with a thud. “Ugh, I’m just frustrated.”

JP flipped his pen onto the desk. “Why don’t you call it a night? It’s payday. Take your hush money and have a little fun.”

Hush money.

My mind raced. “Wait ... what did you say?” My fingers were already flipping through the pages and pages of notes.

He frowned. “I was joking. Why?”

I landed on one of several entries with familiar names. “Shit ...”

JP stepped beside me as I swiveled toward the corkboard. “What is it?” he asked.

I scribbled dates onto a Post-it Note and slapped it on the board. I then stretched the lavender string between the dates connecting Maryann’s disappearance, the attempted purchase of Wabash Lake, and several exchanges of money between the Sinclair twins.

Still, something was missing.

I pointed at the board. “What do you know about Bootsy and Bowlegs Sinclair?”

JP leaned back onto his heels. “Bowlegs has been dead for a while now. Bootsy is his twin brother. They’ve always lived on the fringes ... I know Dad uses his money and influence to persuade them to gather information—keep their eyes and ears open—that kind of thing.”

My recent unsettling interaction with Bootsy scratched at my brain.What if his odd reaction to me was because he actually didn’t recognize me?

I flipped forward and then backward in the notebook. Over and over Bug noted meetings and exchanges of money between one or both of the Sinclair twins. I moved onto an entry that I had flagged.

“Look at this.” I pointed to my notes. “Back when Bowlegs died, King Equities paid a large sum of money to Beauden Funeral Home, specifically the funeral director and owner. At the same time, he also provided a healthydonationto the Sinclair twins.”

JP nodded. “Dad paid for the funeral services ... gave Bootsy a little extra money too. It was a good look for him.”

I scoffed. “Benevolent, sure. But what funeral do you know costs fiftythousanddollars?”

JP’s brows cinched down as he leaned over the desk and slid the paper closer to look for himself. “What?”

“Yeah,” I confirmed. “Your father paid the funeral home fifty thousand dollars. That’s an awful lot of money for a simple funeral service, wouldn’t you say?”

He looked at me and at the board again with a scowl. “What are you insinuating exactly?”

Nerves tittered under my skin, and I rubbed my hands together. “What I’m questioning—and I know it sounds absolutely batshit crazy—but ... are you sure your father didn’t pay the funeral home that kind of money to keep quiet about something? At the same time he doled out money to the Sinclairs? What if it really was hush money.” My eyes narrowed, knowing how wild my theory sounded. “Are you absolutely certain that Bowlegs isn’t still alive and walking among us?”

TWENTY-THREE

ROYAL

It was a sick thrill,knowing our father could no longer hide behind his facade of the perfect man. He may have convinced most everyone else, but his children knew the truth. For years he had used us to not only keep up appearances, but also speak highly of him at any opportunity.

Those days were over.

In my kitchen we had plotted a way to throw our father off-kilter. I wanted to storm into his office and demand he give us answers, but Veda argued for a more delicate approach. My siblings agreed with her, and we determined our approach would be much subtler.

Admittedly, it was also sneakier and a hell of a lot more fun.

At the Sugar Bowl, I glanced at the large clock on the wall and waited anxiously for the bakery to close. My sister bid farewell to the last patron as she flipped the front sign toClosedbefore turning the lock.

Sylvie exhaled and leaned against the glass door. “Cass should be here any minute.”

I nodded and slid the small, empty plate away from me. I had stress-eaten an entire plate of Huck’s cinnamon-sugar Junkers, and they were already sitting like lead in my stomach.

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