Chapter 2
The Dead Don’t Lie
"Dad, I think you're good on the foundation," Emily said, backpack in lap. "Besides, we're gonna be late. Chop, chop."
Shane Bolles wiggled his fingers, searching for a napkin or something other than his pants to wipe his hands. "It's sunscreen, and we have time."
"It's tinted, and you don't need a primer for sunscreen."
He ignored her, stretching his face in the mirror and testing the wrinkles that had formed overnight at his eyes. He smoothed down the sides of his hair. Airports were rife with paparazzi, and God knows what happened the last time he left in a rush.
Daily Beast: They're just like us! Dead Don't Lie star Shane Bolles looks like the dead in Trader Joe’s.
"Buckle up, buttercup, it's gonna be a fast ride," Shane said, backing out of the driveway of their modern bungalow and avoiding a jogger.
Emily asked, "So, what's this guy's name?"
"Grandpa? I don't know. What do you want to call him?" Shane said, easing into traffic.
"No. Like, what's the dead guy's name?"
"What dead guy?"
Emily held up Shane's phone. "The guy Uncle Frankie sent. Isn't that why we're going to Hinnewatcha?"
Shane attempted to grab his phone but Emily, in all her 14-year-old glory, was quicker to the draw.
"Hands free, Dad. You can't afford another ticket."
He replied, "Mind your own. And your elders. And then read me that text."
Emily read, "Don't kill me Shane. But it was too good to pass up. Dead guy in your hometown, right when you were already heading there."
"This time, I really am going to kill him. There are too many agents in LA anyway, no one will miss him," Shane said.
"You always say Frankie is more like a brother than your agent," Emily argued, "And besides, why else would we go there, if not for a case?"
Shane maneuvered onto the freeway. "I specifically told Frankie that we— I mean, I—that I needed some time."
Emily's mouth dropped open, "Oh. My. God. Dad. Tell me this isn't because of school. I thought we were done with that."
"No," Shane said, adamantly shaking his head.
"Oh my God! You're doing the face!"
Shane dropped the exaggerated frown, schooling his face to neutral. "I needed a break, Buttercup," he stole a glance at his rapidly angering teen and decided to just rip the band-aid off. "And uh, you know, a break could be good for both of us right now. LA is so smoggy. I swear it's making my wrinkles worse."
Emily, despite the abundance of freckles and her tendency to still hop when she was mad, was a force to be reckoned with when she lost her cool. Shane tried not to envision the headlines if someone decided to film them in this traffic. Shane Bolles, read the riot act by teenage daughter on the 405.
He let her waves of teenage angst roll over him, wondering if the dead guy in Hinnewatcha was someone he knew. I can't believe Frankie did this. He knew I was going back to Vermont for a break. I specifically told him—no cases. No interviews. No photo ops.
Emily's rant ran its course into indignant silence by the time they got to LAX. They rushed to their gate, late as usual, and her death dagger stares were enough to make him grateful that the airline seated them across the aisle from each other and not right next to each other.
Shane gave Emily his best smile, but she just shoved her headphones over her ears. She'll be fine by the time we get to the east coast. Shane connected to the wifi and googled the name Frankie sent despite his best attempts to ignore it. A man in his mid-forties, dough-faced with angry eyes looked back at him from the photo on his screen. Dave Fever. That's a good name, I would have remembered that if he was in school with me. The man in the photo stood next to his wife according to the fine print. She managed to make a tepid smile look more dreary than a frown. They look miserable. Why would they use this photo? He read through the first article from the Voracious Vermonter:
Hinnewatcha, VT — David Fever, 42, was found dead in his home September 20th, 2023. The investigation is ongoing; police have not announced if foul play is suspected. Fever is survived by his wife of two years, Maria Fever, his step-daughter, Isabelle, and his older brother Greg Fever. Fever was a longtime resident of Hinnewatcha, and an assistant manager at The Potted Soil garden center. He was offered a full ride to UVM for hockey until a knee injury took him out of the game his senior year. No known—
"Excuse me," the woman sitting next to him said, interrupting his reading. Shane sat a little straighter, selfie-smile at the ready.
"Yes?"
"Can I scoot by?" She asked. "Too much water."
"Oh, right. Yep."
Emily snorted from across the aisle, "You thought she wanted a photo, didn't you?"
"Absolutely not," Shane lied.
He got into his signature pose from the Dead Don't Die title sequence just as his seat mate walked back, but she just paused uncomfortably and shimmied past his knees. Emily laughed outright then, and he knew they'd be OK by the time they got to Vermont.
***
The road to Hinnewatcha ambled past rolling farmland and through russet colored forests, the pavement dark with a recent rain. Shane lowered the windows so the cool, bonfire-tinged air could breeze in, and nestled into the rental car's seat warmers. They listened to the local radio at first, but the commercials were so obnoxious even Emily didn't object when he muted it in favor of the white noise of the drive.
By the time they reached his dad's farm, fog had rolled in from the mountains and settled into the treetops under a low harvest moon. Somewhere across the hills, a dog barked, but otherwise coming home sounded like the exact kind of quiet Shane fled more than 20 years before.
"This place is unreal," Emily said, "I can't believe you hated it."
Shane grabbed a bag from the trunk, grunting. "Gee-whiz, kid, how much did you pack? And I never said I hated it."
"That's your bag, Dad, and you always said you hated it here. I distinctly remember a line about 'bugs and dirt floors,'" Emily said. She turned to take in the wide yard and the farmhouse painted Venetian red like so many barns in Vermont. "You made it sound like you grew up in a shack."
"Is that what he told you?" His dad's voice sounded different in person. The same boom he remembered, but clearer than the handful of terse conversations they'd had in the last decade.
Emily, loyal to the bone, stayed next to Shane's side as he turned to face his dad for the first time in 23 years. Age hadn't softened Brandon Bolles' broad shoulders, and he stood arms crossed in the porch light as stoic as the last time Shane was home. Shane looked across the yard at his dad’s still-bald head, the same thick eyebrows, and fat mustache. Other than his facial hair fading to white, his dad looked the same. Bald and disappointed.
Shane, always quick to hug, found himself rooted to the gravel drive. Emily broke the silence first, "So, you're the asshole, huh?"
"Emily—" Shane had pictured a lot of awkward small talk and stilted silences, not the gauntlet of intros Emily just threw down. I should have known better.
But before he could reprimand, or make a better introduction, or jump back in the car to flee, his dad just nodded.
"You'll fit in fine in this town, granddaughter. Leave the bags for the junior asshole there. He looks like he needs a minute."
Emily looked back at Shane, the anger from two flights before gone, and nodded once as if going into battle. She grabbed her backpack and disappeared into the soft glow behind his dad. Shane wondered if he should have prepped her better. Or prepped his dad.
He followed the pair inside, and paused at the threshold. It would have been easier if the living room weren't the same. He pretended the light blue recliner wasn't there, striding by it and aiming for the belly of the house. Brandon thunked a cup of water in front of Emily, his wooden chair groaning as he sat down at the scratched up farmhouse table that served as an island when needed. Brandon Bolles heaved out a deep breath that seemed to echo in the too-quiet house.
"What's the chance you got any oat milk?" Emily asked into the awkward silence.
"Zero to none, you hippie,” his dad replied. “How many tattoos do you have?"
"Only the tramp stamp," she smiled, nodding at the refrigerator. "Do we need to forage for dinner or do you have anything in that fridge?"
Shane tried to intervene but the Bolles volleying match was a bit intimidating for anyone, and he still felt a little off kilter being back in this kitchen.
"I might have some mashed potatoes and meatloaf in there if you can stomach it after the malnutrition that one," Brandon jerked his head in Shane's direction, "has forced you to endure."
Emily’s smile could have frozen a trash fire. "I'm svelte, thank you very much, not malnourished, and we eat just fine."
"You're scrawny, and you talk too much."
"Jesus, Dad. Remind me why we even came here?" Emily asked, arms crossed.
Suddenly two generations of Bolles stared at him, expectantly, and he realized that for all the features Emily inherited from her mother, she got Brandon Bolles' dark green eyes. It was disconcerting.
His dad raised his coffee mug, not blinking, "I was just about to ask the same question."
Shane's chair screeched back as he stood up from the table. "Who wants meatloaf?"
"No! No one gets meatloaf until I get some goddamned answers," Brandon said, thick finger pointing at the fridge as if he could keep it closed with sheer will.
Emily launched back, "What, are you going to starve us out? Let's leave, Dad. This guy sucks worse than mom."
"Let’s just eat something," Shane tried, smiling weakly. "I think we'll all feel better." He opened the fridge and started pulling plates out at random.
"Don't pussyfoot around. I haven't seen you since the funeral and I've never even met this feral cat you're calling a girl. I want to know why you called me two days ago for the first time in eight years, telling," his dad reared back to emphasize his biggest issue. " Telling me that you are coming here for a while and staying in my house."
Shane held up a hand, trying to pacify the man fuming at the end of the table, "I just thought—" But Emily cut him off mid-sentence.
"What do you mean 'you're calling a girl?' Let me guess. You have something against girls with short hair?" She fluffed her short locks. "Least I have some."
"You look like Macaulay Culkin."
Emily shook her head, "I don't even know who that is."
" You don't know who Macaulay Culkin is?" Brandon's eyes widened at Shane before turning back to his granddaughter . "Home Alone?"
Shane couldn't help it. He laughed. I forgot how much he loves Macaulay Culkin.
Brandon pointed again, "Don't laugh. I can't believe she doesn't know who Macaulay Culkin is and you live in LA. And you're obviously not feeding her, so for chrissake would you just heat up the meatloaf already?"
"Ma, meatloaf!" Shane tried, but neither Bolles got the reference. "Right. Meatloaf. In a jiffy."
He tore off plastic wrap, cringing at the feel of Saran, but almost dropped the plate when he saw the tin yellow timer on top of the microwave. Shane looked back at his dad in disbelief.
"You put the timer in the kitchen?" Shane shuddered.
"I use it for cookies," Brandon said, more than a touch indignant. "It is, after all, a timer."
Emily raised her hand, "What's so special about that timer?"
Brandon laughed. "Let me guess. She doesn't know? Well I can't wait to be a part of this conversation. Why don't you ask the more important question here, Feral Cat?"
"And what is that, Old Man?" Emily retorted.
"Ask your dad how he really solves all those cold cases." Brandon leaned back, mustache widening over his first genuine smile like an accordion unfolding.
Shane looked at the cold plate of meatloaf in his hand. If I smash this into my face, it might startle them both enough to slow down the shit storm that is about to occur.
"What, that he Raises the dead and asks them?” Emily replied, “Old news, Old Man. What else you got?"
Shane sighed. This is going to be a long night . "I'll get the mashed potatoes."