Page 85 of Whiskey Kisses

Foul play?Shock washes over me, leaving me nauseated, and I close my eyes.This isn't real. I can still see him. Laughing with Mama when I was little. Fighting with her at the dinner table. Road trips. Spankings. That pleased smile at graduation. His disappointment. Angry, pleased, smug, amused but always, always alive.Tristan must sense that I need his warmth and strength because he pulls me even closer, supporting me as I sag against him.

“You okay?” he murmurs, taking my hand.

Shaking my head, I force my eyes open.

Detective Carter leans forward, his intense gaze softened by compassion. “I know how difficult this must be. We’re here to support you and to answer any questions you may have, but keep in mind there are details we can’t disclose at this time due to the ongoing investigation.”

“I understand.” I give another shaky nod. And then I think of Maribelle, her snarky reply to my texts earlier. I blink back the tears blurring my eyes. “I have a sister. Has anyone told her yet?”

“Maribelle Doyle-Spencer, correct?” Martinez asks, eyes flashing to her small tablet. “She’s just been notified, as well.”

I blow out a breath, grateful and relieved. Maribelle doesn’t handle bad news well, not that there’s a “right” way to deal with something like this, and I’m not sure I can handle her at a time like this. She wields her pain like a weapon, and God help the people caught in the crossfire.

“Why would someone do this?” A sudden sob rips through me. I slip my hand from Tristan’s, covering my face.

“That’s what we’re working to find out,” Carter says calmly. “We’ll need to ask you about your father’s recent activities, whether he’s received any threats or if you’ve noticed anything strange, but we understand that this is a lot to handle right now. We can come back later if you need some time.”

When I don’t reply right away, Tristan clears his throat. “I think that might be best.”

“Absolutely.” The detectives stand, and Carter hands Tristan his card, urging us to reach out when we’re ready to talk. “Please, don’t hesitate—even if there’s just something you need.”

“Thank you,” I say hoarsely.

“We will be in touch soon,” he says. “Again, we are deeply sorry for your loss, Miss Doyle.”

The smellof Tristan’s stew fills the house with its homey aroma, but my stomach is too knotted up to even think about eating. I’m in bed, covers pulled up to my chin as I watch the autumnal red leaves of a tree just outside the window quiver in the breeze. I’ve been here since the cops left, curled up, thinking, crying. It’s as if someone pressed fast forward on my life a few months ago and I’m not sure I can keep up.

“Did you know?”

Tristan shook his head slowly, his bright green eyes dull as they took in my sorrow, my wild confusion.

“And you’re sure you had nothing to do with this?” I demanded. “Tell me the truth, Tristan.”

A normal couple wouldn’t be having a conversation like this, and I wasn’t sure what it said about us that I was even asking, but we weren’t normal. We’d never been normal.

“Of course, not,” he said quietly, reaching for me.

I took a step back, wringing my hands. “You’ve never?—”

His eyes flared. “It wasn’t fucking me, Evie. I got what I came for—I had zero reason to target him.”

I brought my hands to my mouth, my heart breaking all over again. Why was I crying? Because my father had been murdered? He’d been a shitty dad, but he was the only one I had. He’d never been proud of me,and now he never would be. That chance was gone. The chance for him to change, to be better. To say the things I wanted to say, and to hear the things I needed to hear from him.

Or maybe it wasn’t that deep. Maybe it was simply a matter of loving someone no matter what they’d done to you. Loving them even if you didn’t like them. Loving them when you also sort of hated them.

Or maybe I was crying because I didn’t know Tristan the way I wanted to. I didn’t know if I could trust him, because at the end of the day he was always going to choose his family and their needs over everything else.

There’s a soft knock on the door.

“Come in,” I call in a voice raw from crying.

The door opens a sliver, and Opal slips inside, shutting it behind her. It’s been a minute since we saw each other, and her blond box braids have been replaced by the dark, fluffy cloud of her natural curls. “Oh, Evie.”

Relief and sadness and love for her hit me all at once and I sit up halfway, wiping my face. She must’ve come straight from work, judging by the bell-bottom corduroys and classy blouse. “Hey.”

“Hey, honey.” She crosses the room swiftly, already barefoot as she gets under the covers with me and lets me cry into her embrace. “Tristan called, asked if I could come.”

“He must’ve really been desperate if he let you drive yourself here,” I mumble.

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