"Yes. I'm here." My voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else. "Were there any signs of—did James—"
"No signs of foul play," Detective Hall said, understanding my unfinished question. "The medical examiner's report is consistent with drowning. Given the storm conditions that night that we were able to confirm, we have to conclude James Biggs was telling the truth. It was a tragic accident. Boyd drowned, James survived, likely because Boyd was strapped into the driver's seat, and James wasn't wearing a seatbelt."
"Okay." What else was there to say?
"I'm very sorry for your loss, Ms. Waters."
"Thank you, Detective."
I ended the call then sat in the silence of my van, trying to absorb the weight of confirmed truth.
Boyd Biggs was my father. Had been my father. Had been dead since before I could form memories.
The knowledge settled over me like falling snow—cold, soft, muting the edges of reality.
I forced myself into motion. Sitting still meant thinking, and thinking led nowhere useful. I went through the motions of doing laundry and buying groceries and tidying my van. Later in the afternoon my stomach growled and I realized I hadn't eaten all day. I walked to the campground community room and heated tomato soup in a microwave, then carried it to the picnic table next to my van. The sun had reappeared and it was unseasonably warm, a nice day to be outside. The air smelled of evergreen and woodsmoke. I closed my eyes and committed it all to memory.
I ate slowly, trying to still my mind, but acknowledging I needed time to absorb the events of the past few days. I would try to be gentle with myself.
A vehicle pulled into the campground, tires crunching on gravel. I looked up to see a familiar sedan parking near my van. My pulse jumped. Dylan climbed out, his movements slow and hesitant. He looked as if he expected me to tell him to leave. When I didn't, he walked toward me, his expression sad and solemn.
"I guess you heard the news," I said.
He nodded, settling onto the bench across from me. "Detective Hall called my mother and she told us."
"I know this can't be easy for your family either."
"It's not." He studied the weathered wood of the table. "Finding out my father isn't the man I thought he was—the man everyone thought he was—I'm still trying to get my head around it."
"He's still your father," I murmured. "And he does seem to be remorseful for what he did."
He nodded. "At least he's alive. You don't even get that."
I sighed. "But I never had it."
Dylan was quiet for a moment. "They're saying my dad will probably get a fine and probation. His lawyer thinks they can make a case for diminished capacity at the time of the identity theft, given the trauma of the accident and losing his brother. White-collar crime, no victims who pressed charges until now, model citizen for decades."
"That's good. I'm glad he won't go back to prison."
"Are you?" Dylan looked at me with genuine curiosity. "After what he did to you and your mother?"
"Prison wouldn't change the past, and it would hurt you and your family. So yeah, I'm glad."
We sat in silence, the wind rustling through bare trees around us.
"Since we're technically kin now," Dylan said eventually, a ghost of his old smile appearing, "maybe someday we can get to know each other again. As family. Or friends. Whatever works."
"I'd like that," I said, meaning it. "When things aren't so raw."
"When things aren't so raw," he agreed.
He reached across the table, and I met him halfway. Our hands clasped—not romantically, but with the understanding of two people who'd been caught in the same storm and had somehow made it through.
"Will the distillery survive this?" I asked.
He gave a little laugh. "Absolutely. People move in and out of the business, but bourbon endures." Dylan pushed to his feet. "Take care of yourself, Bernadette."
"You too."
