Chapter 3

Faye

I roll down the window of my truck and let in the cold air as a familiar smell settles into my throat and skin. I’d been to places all over the United States, from the mountains and coastlines to cities and suburbs, but there’s something different about small towns in Kentucky. Fiasco, in particular, feels big and suffocating all at once, with the flat land, the quiet, the memories I’d rather forget. Coming home has nerves and hunger pangs at war in my stomach that I have no choice but to stifle.

The red neon sign outside of a gas station that doubles as a restaurant, still glows nice and bright, even as the sun brightens the morning without peeking over the horizon just yet. Black iron light posts that line the street look new. And signs that read Celebrating 100 years of Bourbon I wonder if they even happened sometimes.

Daylight and half a decade later, Fiasco’s more charming than I remember. The landscaping and attention to detail make it feel less like a small forgotten town and more like a destination.

When I finally pull into the police station, the morning light is bright enough to highlight all the ways the place has changed. Before I left, it was a few blocks back and half the size. The Fiasco Police Department has gotten an upgrade. I imagine it’s more than just taxes paying for this. We had two of the biggest businesses housed right here in Fiasco—bourbon and horse racing. The men who ran both, I’m sure, had some hand in making this place look the way it did. This building used to be the old post office, but now it’s a state-of-the-art facility that houses the police department, 911 dispatchers, and even an FBI field office, according to the signs that hang just above the entryway. It looks like a smaller version of Grand Central Station during that quiet slip of time between the last train and the first.

“Excuse me, I’m here to bail out my sister. Maggie Calloway,” I say to the front desk officer. There’s nothing friendly about the way he doesn’t respond. Glaring and judging, his mutton chops are the only part of his demeanor that appears light-hearted. They match the coiffed hair that’s been combed and styled. Putting a toothpick in his mouth, he turns back to his computer, typing away.

“Are my eyes deceiving me?” a familiar voice calls out from behind the front desk. “Faye Calloway walking into my station. Are you finally here to say yes to that date?”

I know exactly who it is before I look up.

“Cortez.” I take in his dark hair and eyes, his face that’s only gotten more handsome. He has the kind of bone structure people bring to their plastic surgeon to mimic. Dark hair, bright smile. “Still looking like a snack,” I say with a smile. We were both always great at flirting.

Alex Cortez charmed his way into my pants when we were in the police academy together. You never forget your first. And the only . But flirting didn’t equal chemistry, and I realized that quickly.

“Hey, baby girl,” he says, coming around the front desk and wrapping his thick arms around me. That nickname isn’t one I expected. “You look incredible.”

I glance at his chest and notice there’s no badge and that he’s not wearing the full khaki uniform like the other officer who’s eyeing us from behind the counter. “Are you working or...?”

“Decided to move up and was able to stay local.” His smile takes over his whole face with that response. “You’re looking at one-fourth of the FBI unit for Montgomery County. They wanted to open a field office, and since Fiasco PD had the space for it, my change from plain clothes to FBI had me moving from the cubicle pit to an office.”

I raise my eyebrows at that. Del had folded me into the surveillance for Blackstone, so I know what I’ve been doing has been filtering to the FBI. I just didn’t think about who my contact would be while I’m here. “So you’re working with Del?” I ask.

With a wink, he confirms, “Yes, ma’am. Well, more like Del did me a favor by suggesting a private investigator when we were grasping at straws for this case. Then he mentioned your name. He shared your surveillance. Your work is pretty damn impressive.”

I try to mask the smile that compliment pulled from me.

“Always hoped we’d end up working together,” Cortez says with a lightness to his voice. Giving my arm a squeeze, his brow furrows. “You’re here early.” He searches my face before he asks, “Maggie?”

I nod, lips pursed. “Del called and said she was picked up last night. What kind of shape is she in?”

He moves back around the counter and types something into his computer. I toss my license, the bail bond, and my social security in front of him.

“She was sober by the middle of third shift. She was her usual sunshine self when I told her I couldn’t give her anything for her hangover,” he tells me.

Huffing a laugh at his sarcasm, I take in the man in front of me. Someone familiar, but different. A friend. Maybe more at one point. But a stranger from a life I haven’t participated in for years. There’s no ring on his left finger.

“I’m not married, if that’s what you were looking at.”

I smile and find his brown eyes studying me right back.

He clears his throat, and the humor that was there a moment ago lifts when he says, “I heard when she came in, it was pretty bad. But I don’t think she was drunk until after she had gotten shoved around.”

Maggie’s the Calloway sister everyone knows, the one who stepped up and took over the farm when Mom passed. The daughter who stayed and took care of a woman who needed therapy and not just a bunch of cornfields and farm animals to heal. The folks of Fiasco respected that, and I became the villain for leaving. They have no idea what transpired—the deals I made. The things I did to make things okay. But right now, my sister isn’t okay at all.

Violence is easier to digest when it doesn’t touch you personally. I have to ask, “Any idea who might be responsible?”

He makes a few notes, and then steps away for a moment. I watch as he moves toward the back of the precinct and gives some of the papers I had to sign to one of the other officers. When he comes back, he doesn’t return to the computer, instead he walks around the desk and signals for me to follow him. When we move past the waiting room and down the hall, he clears his throat. “Listen, Faye.” The small sigh that follows has me bracing for whatever he’s about to say. “Your sister is trouble. You’re not going to find many people in Fiasco who’ll think otherwise. And trouble has a tendency to find trouble.”

I don’t agree and that doesn’t answer my question. “Trouble can mean a lot of things, Cortez. Don’t forget what I’ve been hired to do. That feels an awful lot like trouble.”

“Fair enough. Wrong thing to say,” he says, backing off.

“Let me handle things with my sister and get settled before my first performance.” I lean in closer and pull out my phone to make this interaction feel casual. There isn’t anyone within earshot, but anything regarding Blackstone isn’t public knowledge. “We should plan a place to meet that isn’t here, obviously.”

He smiles, taking a few seconds to respond. “You asking me out for drinks, Faye?”

I ignore him, because as much as I like flirting, Cortez is a colleague now. Granted, a colleague who has seen me naked, but much like everything else familiar around here, that’s in the past. This is business, and I intend for him to stay in that category.

The door buzzes open. My sister leans against the wall, looking like someone I wouldn’t have recognized if I walked by her on the street. It takes almost everything in me not to rush to her and a single second to confirm that my plans may not have changed, but now they need to be adjusted. There’s no way I can leave her by herself if she’s in any kind of danger. Her hair is either wet or greasy and her black sweater has been stretched out at the neck and hangs from her shoulder. She has one gold hoop in her left ear, the other one missing. Her tight light blue jeans have a large rip in the knee that’s dirty and a little bloody. And yet the mess of it all is eclipsed by the fact that her right eye is almost swollen shut, accompanied by a nasty ombre of purples and blues, and her split lip that’s puffed and angry. Streaks of red run down the front of her neck and disappear into the collar of the sweater. It’s like someone clawed at her front. I bite down hard to keep my emotions in check.

“Jesus, Maggie,” I say on an exhale.

“I didn’t call her,” Maggie says, looking at the officer unlocking her handcuffs. “Who called her? Because I sure as hell didn’t.”

She may not have, but I still came running.

“That’d be me, kid,” Del cuts in from behind me. I turn around, smiling, gliding into his open arms for a hug that feels long overdue. It feels good to hug someone–it’s been a while.

“Faye,” he hums, giving me an extra squeeze. As we pull back, he taps my chin with his knuckle. “It’s been too long, kid.” He looks over my shoulder at Maggie. Her arms are crossed like this entire exchange is torturous to endure. “You’ve been remanded into Faye’s custody on bail. You are obligated to appear in court at the end of January. Please, for the love of all things sacred, don’t get arrested between now and then.”

Cortez tries to hide his smile by looking down.

“Cortez, you’re still an asshole,” Maggie bites back. “You’re only happy to see her because you’re still obsessed with her.” Her eyes flick down to his crotch. “Get over it, man, you popped her cherry. She’s moved on.”

Fucking Maggie.

He points at her. “Watch it. How about you don’t end up back in cuffs before you even step out of here.”

“You’re so boring. Maybe that’s why you fell into the friend zone,” she says, sending him a smile that says she thinks she won this round. She walks down the hall from where we came and over her shoulder, she shouts, “Faye, you can go home now.”

It’s almost funny how fast she needs to get away from me. Laughing and calling her an asshole under my breath is easier than thinking about how those words sting. Del and I follow her out toward the front of the building.

“Do I need to know anything?” Del asks quietly. “Between you and pretty boy FBI here?”

“Just some history. It’s not going to be a problem.” I glance again at Cortez as I walk through the station and give him a wave.

“Good to see you, Faye,” he calls out. With an audience now, albeit small at this hour in a police station, it’s still too many people who don’t need to know that I’m here to help.

Just as I push through the doors, leaving the station, my phone vibrates in my hand.

UNKNOWN

I’ll be in touch.

I glance back inside and watch as Cortez types away on his phone. FAYE

You never asked for my number, Cortez.

UNKNOWN

FBI remember?

When I look up from my phone, Maggie’s gone. “Dammit, where the hell did she go?”

Del sniffs out a laugh as he stands next to me on the landing of the concrete steps. “Probably for breakfast. Her car is in the impound. Figured it would be good to make sure she didn’t wrap it around any trees or telephone poles while she was working through whatever brought her in.”

I didn’t plan on being my sister’s keeper while I’m here. In fact, I didn’t have a plan for Maggie and me when I found out I was being sent to Fiasco. I couldn’t allow myself to even consider it—she hated me for leaving, and I couldn’t forgive her for that.

“She’s been running with the wrong crowd for a while. Misdemeanors at first. But now...” He shakes his head. “Now, I know for a fact she’s involved in something she can’t get away from. Not without getting hurt. So no matter what she tells you, she needs your help.”

“Yeah, I gathered that it wasn’t going to be something easy. Not with a beating like that,” I say, running my fingers along my wrist.

He clears his throat before saying, “There’s a lot of pieces in play here. Are you ready for this, kid?”

He’s referring to my involvement with Blackstone, but I’m merely a piece of it. Private investigators only have a fraction of the story, not the full view. But for my part, I’m ready.

“As long as people believe the lie, and that gossip doesn’t catch up to Blackstone before we get what’s needed, then it’ll be smooth.”

“Be smart. If something doesn’t feel right, you wait.”

I give him a curt nod. Del lost his daughter in the line of duty. She followed a lead, didn’t have the back-up she needed, and he found her bleeding out on scene. A year later, I left town, but he made sure I knew what was happening. Who was arrested, who died, the chaos that came to Fiasco resulting in rickhouse fires and I’m sure even more. I had quit my plans to join the PD, but somehow Del made sure I didn’t lose sight of what I had been good at and trained in.

I opened an email with the subject line: Ways to be a cop without being a cop

Faye, here are a couple of names down in Louisiana who are always looking for private investigators. Their departments are too small for some of the shit they’re dealing with . Might as well put what you’ve learned to some use. Your mom mentioned you were working in a coffee shop. You serve a mean cup of coffee and a slice of pie. Marla would be proud. But for what it’s worth, I know you pay attention. More than most. We both know that the devil was always in the details :) Talk soon, kid.

-Del

I release a heavy breath and scan the sidewalks on both sides of the road. It takes me a couple of minutes to find her down the block in front of a sidewalk sale.

“Maggie,” I shout as I hustle closer.

She grabs a trucker hat from the turntable and keeps walking. Seriously?

“I never asked anyone to call you,” she calls out. “I don’t want you here.”

I speed walk in her wake. “That’s nice. But I don’t need an invite to be here.”

She stops short, which has me stumbling into her back. When she turns, she looks at me with pure annoyance. “Go home, Faye.”

I didn’t come back here to word spar with her. “This is home. For a little while, at least.”

She blinks at me, almost like, out of all the things she thought I was going to say, that was the absolute last one. As she tips her hat back, I see it again, the bruise that takes up the whole right side of her face, not just around the eye. That’s more than just a punch or a slap. That’s a beating.

Quietly, I ask, “Who hurt you?” I’ve seen plenty of beat-up faces over the years. Hell, I’ve contributed to making some of them myself, when necessary, but it’s different when it’s your family.

“Don’t you mean, ‘what did you do, Maggie?’” she says, hardening the words.

“No. I don’t think a woman could do anything that warrants this.”

The outer edges of her eyes are more blue than green. Same as Mom’s. Everyone used to tell her how beautiful her eyes were. I shake off the memory.

I have no business asking for details, but I do anyway. “What are you involved in?”

Maggie shoves her hands into the pockets of her puffy jacket and looks at me for just a second. I can’t help but search her face for some kind of tell or softening that’ll remind me of my sister.

More quietly she asks, “Why do you care all of a sudden?”

If I had blinked, I would have missed the way her eyes glass over. Or how her shoulders slouch as she exhales. It’s not lost on me that she doesn’t have anyone to ask her. It’s the only thing we still have in common. We both have no one.

But a car horn from a minivan knocks us both back into the reality of our situation and it has her widening her eyes and swiping at her watch. “Wait, what’s today?” she rushes out.

The shift in conversation feels abrupt, but I answer. “Monday.”

“Peaches and cream stuffed French toast,” she says, looking over my shoulder one second, and then brushing past me the next.

I know exactly where she’s heading.

At the end of the block and after passing two gas kiosks, the bell on the door chimes as it opens. A bell that sounds like it had been rusted and is pissed it is still being rung. Looking around, the wood paneling makes Hooch’s feel vintage. It has me feeling nostalgic, the same way Christmas music does every year. It’s welcoming, familiar, and my lips twitch into an easy smile. The vinyl of the booths has been updated from the russet orange I remember to a deep cranberry. Awards and newspaper write-ups from decades of sponsored baseball teams and local festivals still decorate the walls. The tables have been upgraded and the layout changed, but the long counter is exactly the same. Oak barrel wood rims the mustard-colored Corian, running the length of Fiasco’s gas station restaurant.

Heads turn as we make our way to the woman standing with a coffee carafe in one hand and the other on her hip. Marla Hooch doesn’t like very many people. Tourists, out of towners, even seasonal visitors aren’t greeted with open arms at Hooch’s. You have to be a townie for that. Walking in here isn’t about to be any type of welcome wagon.

“What’ll it be, honey?” Marla asks Maggie.

Without lifting the brim of her stolen hat, she says, “Coffee and the special.”

“Hi Marla,” I smile. “I’ll have the same.” I had to shoot my shot.

Marla’s resting bitch face is top-notch. It always had been. She gives me a side-eye, barely acknowledging me—it stings a little. I spent a lot of time at this counter growing up, and if anyone was going to hold a grudge for me not visiting, it was going to be Marla Hooch. She held grudges over shitty tips and people who forgot to turn off their phones at supper.

Maggie laughs to herself. “You really think she’s going to bring you breakfast?”

I turn my head to look at my sister. She isn’t the same person I grew up with, but she also is in some ways. She’s a little taller than me, thinner too. Her blonde is darker than mine. It’s clear she takes the time to get highlights, but it’s been a while with her roots growing out. The brim of her hat is low enough to keep a shadow on her face, but I’m surprised that not even Marla asked what happened.

Marla backs through the swinging kitchen door with a tray of food in one hand and a single mug in the other. Sliding the mug in front of Maggie, she pours her a hot cup of what smells like hazelnut coffee. When she returns the carafe to the hot plate behind her, she moves around the counter and toward the tables. It’s the corner booth that gives me an unsettled feeling. Usually, it would be retired fire and police department guys playing poker, sometimes it would be a packed-in group of high schoolers, but today it’s Wheeler Finch and Waz King.

Finch & King is the most celebrated brand in horse racing. It has a hand in every facet of the industry from breeding and training to racing and gambling. Wheeler Finch is respected. Maybe even more than that. He’s revered. And it isn’t just that he has an obscene amount of money. Or the fact that he makes sure everyone knows it too. It’s the simple fact that he helps make other people wealthy.

Every piece of the horse business has some touchpoint to Wheeler Finch. And the day that the King brothers came to Fiasco was when that started. Tullis and Waz King were horse trainers who helped deliver triple crown winners—horse training, jockeys, and building teams that delivered year after year. The King brothers provided horses, while Wheeler Finch tied it together with sponsors, off-track betting, and any other piece that had the ability to cash out. There have always been rumors about how Wheeler conducted business and how the Kings manipulated other trainers. Finch & King Racing is a powerhouse.

The only piece of it that ever mattered to me is that Tullis King took one look at my mother and decided she was what he wanted. And our lives were never the same.

I watch as Marla drops off two plates to their table without a smile. I know she isn’t a fan, but in Fiasco, there are some people you just don’t cross. Finch and King are those people.

When she comes back, she puts a small empty glass in front of me, and then for the first time since I stepped foot in here, looks me in the eye as she pours water from the sweating pitcher.

I let out a sigh before I ask, “How’ve you been, Marla?”

“Sounds like a question for someone who wants something and not like a question from a person who really wants to know the answer.” She raises an eyebrow.

For fuck’s sake . “Okay, then. May I have a coffee?”

“We have water,” she says, turning back toward the kitchen.

I sniff out a laugh. This fucking town.

“Told ya,” Maggie says with too much amusement.

If they both only knew why I left to begin with, maybe they wouldn’t be such dicks about it. I glance over to the corner booth again before I lean into my sister’s space, hovering right near her ear. “I’m here for a month.”

Maggie glances at me without much reaction.

I had planned to keep my distance—headline at Midnight Proof and do what I was hired to do in regard to Blackstone. But that was before. So I continue. “I had plans to stay in a little apartment while I was here, but not anymore. Until you tell me what you’re involved with, I’m moving back into the house.”

Maggie barks out a laugh just as Marla slides a plate of steaming French toast, doused in bourbon-soaked peaches and topped with whipped cream, onto the counter.

“I don’t think so,” she mumbles.

My mouth waters and stomach grumbles just smelling that breakfast. I had a bag of almonds on my drive here overnight and nothing since. I’m a naturally thicker girl, but I follow macros and eat every three hours so I can manage exactly where I want my curves to remain. Overindulging is one thing, but forgetting to eat, that’s entirely out of character for me.

I’m not going to argue with her here. “See you at home, Maggie,” I say as I shove away from the counter. I purposely avoid making eye contact with anyone, especially the two powerful men in the corner booth. My pocket vibrates with a text as I’m leaving.

“Your room is a gym now,” Maggie calls out over her shoulder. She’s such a dick .

I ignore the heads turning in my direction, shrugging off the way it feels not to be welcomed here, and pull out my phone.

BLACKSTONE

Rosie Gold, looks like I’ll be seeing you at Midnight Proof this weekend. How about a little something to hold me over...