23. Evie
T he last real conversation I had with my father was nearly two weeks ago, when he called to tell me I should join the local chamber of commerce “if that husband of yours lets you.” He said he no longer had any need for membership now that he was retiring, but “participation is essential, Evelyn. It can only enhance the distillery’s name and reputation—people like to see commitment to the community.”
I said I’d consider it and that was it.
It’s been one week since Tristan took over Doyle Whiskey, and there hasn’t been a peep from Daddy. A week and one day, actually. Under normal circumstances—if anything about the past few weeks can be called normal—I wouldn’t be too concerned. We’ve barely spoken since I married Tristan, and before that, he really only called when he wanted something.
But we communicated, at least. So, despite the way our relationship has deteriorated over the years and the sorry state it’s in now, I can’t help but worry about him. Tristan keeps saying that Daddy made his bed and now he’s lying in it, which is true, but there’s something tragic about the way his life has unfolded even if it’s all his fault.
I had an affluent childhood: private school, nice clothes, and family vacations to fancy places. Between the old money Mama brought to the table and the Doyle legacy, things were pretty cushy. But Daddy still managed to live beyond his means, driven by a need to impress. The Doyles had an image to uphold in Savannah, a certain lifestyle, and he would not be the one to tarnish it.
I didn’t see all that when I was a kid, of course. It took adulthood, going to college, to see the truth with fresh eyes when I came home. I’d always thought Mama had left because Daddy treated her so bad, and that was a big part of it, but I realize now it was also because she was unable to cope with his recklessness and the deceitful ways that he tried to cover all the gambling and spending.
I get why he’s ended up this way. But I still pity him.
And I wish he’d just call me, or even send a text message (he won’t; he finds texting tacky for the most part) to let me know he’s okay. If he’s on a tropical island, nursing his wounds with a whiskey on the rocks, fine. If he’s in a casino somewhere, digging himself into an even deeper financial hole, fine! I just need to know because I can’t shake the slightly sick feeling that something bad has happened to him.
Evie: Hey. Have you talked to Daddy lately?
Maribelle is Daddy’s favorite. I figure if anyone knows what’s going on with him, it’d be her.
She takes her sweet time getting back to me, but I expect no less.
No.
He’s probably off sulking somewhere because his life’s work has been hijacked by a thug from Boston.
I roll my eyes, my brain conjuring up the snotty tone she’d use to say something like that. Leaving my phone on the kitchen counter, I wash my hands and start on the salad I’m putting together for dinner. Tristan’s supposed to be making Irish stew in the Instant Pot, one of the many recipes his mom emailed us so we wouldn’t starve, but he’s still glued to the mess of papers we stole from Daddy’s file cabinet .
See, that’s another reason I’m concerned. I would’ve heard from Daddy by now had he noticed that the bottom three drawers of that cabinet had been emptied. But I haven’t. Shaking my head, I plunge my hands into the bowl of cool water I’m soaking the veggies in and start to scrub.
The doorbell rings. Drying my hands, I make my way down the hallway toward the front door, where Timmy’s standing with a gun in one hand and a chocolate bar in the other as he peers through the side window.
“Who is it, Tim?” Tristan asks, emerging from the study just as I make it to the door.
“I think they’re cops,” Timmy whispers, glancing back at us with a worried frown.
My heart drops to my feet. The cops? This can’t be good .
Tristan sighs. “Well, fuck.”
Smoothing my hair into a ponytail, I push past them both and open the door. A tall, white woman in dark slacks and a blazer and an even taller Black man in similar dress stand solemnly on my porch. Timmy’s right. They do look like cops. “Miss Doyle?” the man asks.
My heart flutters in my chest, and I swallow nervously. Does this have anything to do with the distillery? Do they know somehow that Tristan’s involvement hasn’t been completely above board? “Yes, that’s me.”
The man’s eyes are warm and compassionate as he flashes a badge. “I’m Detective Carter, and this is Officer Martinez. May we come in? We have some important news regarding your father.”
I freeze, momentarily caught off guard. Is this why he hasn’t been answering our calls? Daddy, what have you done? “Of course.” Nodding, I step aside to let them in. Timmy’s disappeared, but Tristan’s right beside me. “Do you want to, uh, sit down?”
Detective Martinez gives me a kind smile. “Sure, thank you.”
We lead the detectives to the sitting room, where they sit rigidly on the edge of the couch as Tristan and I take the loveseat across from them. Poppy wanders in, brushing against my legs.
“This is my husband, Tristan, by the way,” I blurt, unsure of the proper protocol.
Martinez dips her chin politely, glancing at Carter .
“Miss Doyle," Carter begins, and I just know by the gravity in his tone that this is going to be bad. “I’m sorry to inform you that we found your father earlier this morning. I’m afraid he’s passed away.”
I hear Tristan’s low curse as all of the breath in my lungs rushes out in a whoosh, and I crumple in on myself. He wraps his arm around me, leaning us back against the cushions. The detectives are quiet, allowing me a moment to try and absorb what they just told me, but I can’t wrap my mind around it. My father’s gone?
“What happened?” I manage to ask around the lump in my throat. “How—how did he die?”
“We’re still investigating, but it appears there may have been foul play involved,” Martinez says. “His body was found in an empty lot just outside the city.”
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 smell of 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.
She snorts, stroking my tangled hair. “Nah, girl, you know he sent the goon squad. They picked me right up from the parking lot on campus.”
We lie quietly for a long time, sharing space instead of words. I stare at the window, watching the sun’s buttercup yellow rays turn gold as the sun completes its arc, the clear blue sky deepening into a purple-indigo speckled with stars.
Eventually I lean over to turn on the lamp on my side of the bed. “I don’t know what to do, Opal.”
“There’s nothing to do,” she says. “Except put one foot in front of the other. You’ll get through this.”
“Someone killed him. He died afraid,” I whisper, shuddering. The thought is almost too awful to bear, imagining his fear in those last moments. Who would do this? Someone he owes, someone like the Deschamps? Are they that evil? I clench my eyes shut, trying not to spiral any further.
“I know,” she says gently, rubbing her hand in circles over my back. “I’m so sorry, Evie. He didn’t deserve that.”
“I feel like … like I don’t even know my own town anymore. If something like this can happen, then anything can happen. To any of us.”
Opal hums, her hand never faltering from its comforting rhythm.
“Everything feels so dark.” What an understatement . I’ve never looked into a darkness this deep, this terrifying. Knowing that my father was murdered stains every thought I have. I let out a tremulous sigh, fresh tears wetting my cheeks. “I feel lost.”
“It's okay to feel that way,” she says softly. “You’ve never been this way before. Give it time.”
I nod gratefully, keeping my eyes shut.
“Don't worry about tomorrow or the next day,” she says. “Just focus on now.”
When I wake up, Opal’s gone and Tristan’s sleeping beside me.
Climbing out of bed, I make my way to the bathroom in the dark. My neck is sore, thanks to the funky way I fell asleep, so I take a long, steamy shower, letting the hot water pound the achiness from my body. Afterward, I pull on an old t-shirt and sweatpants and head downstairs to find food. I don’t think I’ve eaten since breakfast yesterday, and now I’m starving.
I’m nearly done with my bowl of stew and Tristan’s famous garlic bread when he appears in the dimly lit kitchen. “Hey,” he rasps, yawning. “You find everything okay?”
“Yeah, thanks.” I nod, swallowing. “This is really good, by the way. Seems you’re quite the cook.”
“I am, aren’t I? Who’d have thought.” He smiles a little, joining me at the table. “How you feelin’?”
I push the last of the bread into my mouth, chewing slowly. “Not great, but not hungry anymore so that’s a start.”
He rests his face in his palm as he looks at me, and we’re quiet for a couple of moments. Just like with Opal. Sometimes someone’s presence is all you need. I’d hate to be alone throughout all of this. As if he senses the tenor of my thoughts, Tristan touches his finger to mine. “You know I’m here for you, right? You need a good cry, a fat joint, or just a warm meal—I got you. I mean it, Evie.”
His sincerity makes my heart ache, and I feel the familiar prick of tears in the corners of my eyes as I look at him. “What would I do without you?”
“You’ll never have to find out, because I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “Family, remember?”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, looking away. “For earlier.”
“Don’t be,” he says, caressing my hand. “You just had your world blown up. Again.”
“You wouldn’t hurt me like that,” I say, a question as well as a statement.
“I wouldn’t, but I get why you wondered if it was me,” he says knowingly, his face hard to see in the glow of the stove light. “You think I’m ruthless, and I am. I don’t like people who fuck around with me and mine, and I’d hurt anybody that tried to hurt you. Even if that meant hurting them. You understand?”
A tear rolls down my cheek. “Yes.”
“I think he hurt you more than you’ve let on, and maybe one day you’ll tell me about it, but none of this had anything to do with that,” he says. “I had no beef with him in the end. He did what he was supposed to do.”
“For you,” I say. “Obviously, someone else felt differently.”
“Listen, it’s too early to know for sure,” he begins, letting go of my hand to thumb away the tear. “But I think this might’ve been the Deschamps.”
The vise grip that’s been clamped around my heart all day tightens, and I rub my chest. “I thought about that,” I admit. “What are we gonna do?”
“I don’t know yet, but will you reconsider Boston?” he asks. “Just until this craziness dies down?”
“Stop asking me that, Tristan.” I can’t cut and run, especially now. Exhausted, I shake my head. “The cops are gonna want to talk to me, and I need to be close during the investigation. And we have a funeral to plan—I need to be here.”
“You’re right. Okay,” he says simply. “We’ll figure it out together.”
The grandfather clock in the living room chimes twice for two o’clock, a reminder that life continues on even though things feel like they’ve come to a standstill for me. I grab my napkin, wiping at my nose. I never thought I’d be planning my own father’s funeral at twenty-three.