Chapter 10

The sheriff came back at dawn with a search warrant for the old hangar. He found the original maintenance records in a file cabinet Roy had never cleaned out, along with the torn page from the 2018 log. That, the ledger, and Marcus's testimony were enough. By noon, the county prosecutor had called it the most straightforward case she'd ever seen.

Roy Bellrose was charged with first-degree murder. Delphine Bellrose was charged with obstruction and conspiracy. The family trust was frozen. The bank put a lien on the gin.

Mari resigned as operations manager on Monday morning. She did it by email, from Eli's motel room, while he was in the bathroom running cold water over his burned hand.

They drove to the Delta Inn diner for breakfast. It was a small place with vinyl booths and a menu that hadn't changed in thirty years. Mari ordered eggs she didn't eat. Eli ordered coffee he drank too fast.

"You could fight the trust," he said. "You're the heir."

"I'm not the heir to a trust," Mari said. "I'm the manager of a gin that's about to be sold to pay legal fees."

"You could buy it."

"With what?"

"I don't know. I'm a mechanic."

Mari looked at him over her coffee cup. "So am I. Sort of."

They sat with that for a minute.

Then Mari said, "The gin's going to need someone who knows the equipment. Someone who can keep it running when the bank auctions it and the new owner doesn't know what they bought."

"I'm not exactly a welcome face around here."

"You're not. But people don't need to welcome you to buy diesel from you." She set her cup down. "I'm not asking you to stay for the gin. I'm asking you to stay because you're my father, and I'd like the chance to know you."

Eli looked out the window at the parking lot, at his truck, at the road that led back to Arkansas. He'd spent eighteen years telling himself he had no family left. That was the lie he'd buried deeper than any fitting, and Mari had pulled it out of the mud in one night.

"All right," he said.

They drove back to the gin in Mari's truck. The gravel drive was still wet, and the iron gate stood open. The rain barrel was right where it had been, tipped on its side from Eli pulling it over on Saturday.

Mari parked and they walked to the gate together. She stopped at the rain barrel, reached in, and pulled out a little brass key-the key to the hangar, which she'd dropped in there three months ago and forgotten.

She handed it to Eli.

"Start with the hangar," she said. "Roy left it a mess."

Eli turned the key over in his palm. It was tarnished and bent, but it fit. He put it in his pocket, next to the cracked aviator watch.

Behind them, the gin stood quiet under a clearing sky. The string lights were off. The fields were still. It was Monday morning in the Mississippi Delta, and for the first time in eighteen years, neither of them was walking away.