Page 35 of Bourbon and Proof

Unfortunately, I already know.

It takestwenty-four hours to gain the access I need. House arrest consists of patrols at the front and back of the house, but only local PD, not FBI. It’s rookies and guys pulling the short straw, along with a monitored security system.

“Ace,” Jimmy says, looking up from his post in a double take. “Wh-what are you doing here? We haven’t been allowing any visitors, unless they’re mandated by the court.” More quietly, he whispers, “You can’t be here.”

I stop walking and stare at him. “Then don’t tell anyone.” While I’m not pleased about having to be here, there’s satisfaction in knowing that he’ll be behind bars soon enough. The charges pending have plenty of witness testimonies andsurveillance to prove the mess he created. Wheeler Finch had upset a multi-billion-dollar industry, and in its wake, made large enough waves to affect almost every person in my small town. People are angry. And that isn’t including the people closest to me—my sister-in-law, Faye, felt the impact. Her mother was silenced for years before she died, and Faye’s sister, Maggie, tried to make it right and still ended up gone. And now, Hadley and this threat. It isn’t going to go unanswered any longer.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Atticus,” he says in his thick Kentucky accent.

I grit my teeth, watching a satisfied grin take over his face. Holding back the anger that vibrates through my veins, I flex my hand at my side. He was smart to send it to Julian. Doing so was a message; he knows who helped me that night. He knows my secrets. And far too many of them. Wheeler sits casually in his wingback chair, in an office that I’ve only ever been inside once before.

I glance at the more senior officer, whose father had worked the bottling line at Foxx Bourbon for most of his life. He gives me a nod, and the cameras in each corner of the room stop blinking red. Inserting an earbud in each ear, he crosses his arms, leaning against the wall more casually now. There are a handful of officers who knew either my brother, Grant, when he was on the Fiasco PD, or his partner, Del, who still serves as a semi-retired detective. Today’s visit won’t be recorded or witnessed. It won’t be mentioned to my brother. It will be like it never happened at all.

Wheeler looks past my shoulder, seemingly more tense, realizing we’re practically alone now.

The sound of metal hitting the weathered wood of his desk makes him settle his attention on the belt buckle. “Ah, your associate got my little gift, I see.”

I look down at my wrist to focus on something to avoid the severe need I’m feeling to punch him in his smug face. “We had an agreement, Wheeler. The fact that you’ve gone ahead and gotten caught for all the bullshit you’ve been wielding these years doesn’t change that.”

He tuts. “Atticus, of course, circumstances have changed. Most importantly, my daughter is not cooperating.”

I try not to visibly tense hearing Wheeler refer to Hadley. Sending another glance to the officer in the corner, I make sure he’s not listening to this.

“She refuses most of my calls. My lawyers aren’t able to access the funds they need, not to mention that I have some upset associates who are starting to call in some aggressive favors for my lack of delivering what they’re owed.”

I noticed the limp he’s adopted when he walked in here and took his seat. And when I look closer, a bruise along the right side of his face is on the end of healing. Apparently, house arrest kept him inside, but it’s proving to be a little harder to keep other monsters out. I smirk, appreciating the fact that his daughter wants nothing to do with him and thinking back to her standing up to the bald man at the bar. “Not my problem, Wheeler. But this isn’t going to get you on my good side,” I threaten as I glance at the gaudy rodeo buckle.

“You know, I always thought it was interesting how your family business just kept getting bigger. Even during the Prohibition, your brand turned bourbon into a medicinal practice. The only bourbon brand to actually grow during a time when liquor was outlawed. Some people might think it was just smart business, but well...” He smiles to himself. “It doesn’t matter the political climate or the state of the economy, Foxx Bourbon just keeps growing. I’m guessing your net worth is even more than what an internet search might show.”

He isn’t wrong, but I want to know what he’s getting at.

“Griz, your father, and maybe even further back than that, made some concessions. Interesting company you’ve all kept over the years...” He pauses to read my reaction.

I squeeze my hand at my side again, pulsing my fingers into a fist.

“A jeweler, an architect, a U.S. Marshall.” Brow furrowing, he feigns forgetfulness. “I wonder what kinds of favors you’ve all done for each other over the years. I doubt much of what Griz had to do or what you’ve done is all that different from what’s landed me here.”

It doesn’t matter to me if he views it that way. Wheeler Finch only ever looks out for himself. And greed finally caught up with him. “I doubt anyone whose horse was drugged and killed, or whose livelihood you fucked with, would agree.” I cross my arms and grit out, “Get to your point.”

He smiles to himself, clearly pleased that he’s riled me up. The truth is, information is dangerous. And he suddenly has a lot of time on his hands. It’s an opportunity to be paying too close attention.

“There’s a lot I’m learning these days. People in Fiasco over the years finding themselves in a watery grave or disappearing altogether. It’s quite compelling, really. Switcher disappearing the same night as Prestley Timkins’s husband—” He tilts his head to the side. “Was that a bender for you, or just an average Friday night?”

I’ve underestimated him. Again. But I stand quietly and let him spout off what he knows.

He waves at the air in front of him, sarcasm lacing his body language and tone. “You know my associates...they have all kinds of things they’ve found on you and your friends. That jeweler and his old man go way back with your family.” He pauses before he adds, “And a pretty blonde architect withworldwide businesses that rank higher on the Fortune 500 than any other in that field.”

I grind my jaw, suppressing the gut punch I feel at hearing this. He shouldn’t know or recognize Julian or Seraphine, never mind have any awareness of their connection to my family.

“What does any of this have to do with what you want? I’m about done with listening to you now.”

“I need you to get my daughter to cooperate. I need access to my funds, and I need people paid off until I’m out of here.” He leans his elbows on the table, coming close enough for me to grab him and slam his face into the metal beneath him if I loosened the reins on my control. “If you can do that, then proof that you’re more than just a Kentucky bourbon boy will stay between us. And your associates won’t have to worry about me selling their information and locations to a variety of whom I can assume might be interested parties.”

The threat is enough to swallow the urge to tell him to go fuck himself. As much as I’d like to hear the cartilage of his nose crunch and inflict a small amount of pain in this moment, he needs to believe he has the upper hand.

“Ah, and there’s one more thing...” He cups his hand below his chin, making a show of trying to remember. “Yes, that’s right. It seems as though a little town not on any maps exists in Montana—beautiful state, I hear. Apparently, people come back from the dead there.”

“Fuck,” I breathe out and rub my hand behind my neck. This motherfucker. I grit my teeth to keep from saying anything that’ll tip my hand.

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