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“Can I put that in the Boggs episode?”

“Yes, do it,” I say automatically. “I’m actually jealous. You’re breaking a real story.”

She pushes on the punching bag again, and the chain squeaks. “Nah, I bet everyone in Henley already knew about the whorehouse, they just didn’t talk about it. You know, being nice and all.”

“True, but I mean the 1864 copper nickel,” I tell her. “That’s a scoop. There’s always been a rumor that Boggs had a family treasure hidden away. Now we know what it was—thanks to your mom.”

I kick my foot against the bumper of my car, my mind running. “You could probably even look at the case file, see if the copper nickel came up in an inventory of the house. The coin literally had one cent printed on it. Any burglar would overlook that. Or . . . wait—didn’t you say there were loose coins in Boggs’s couch? The cops aren’t exactly numismatists.”

“I don’t know,” Bristal says. “I wouldn’t put anything past them.”

“What?” I ask blankly. “No, Bristal. A numismatist is a coin collector.”

“Oh,” she says, her unfocused eyes staring down at the grill of my car. “I thought it sounded illegal.”

“Anyway, I bet you could ask for an inventory of those coins, if they still have them, which I bet they do. It is an unsolved crime, and—”

“Do you want the ep?” Bristal looks at me, her gaze still slightly unfocused.

“What? No!” I insist, my voice rising. “You called this episode all the way back at the beginning. You literally chanted Murder, murder, murder in the historical society after hours.”

“Yeah, but . . .” She kicks at the gravel, and I see that the rubber sole is separating from the cloth of her shoe. “It’s a real story now, and you’re the journalist. I pushed you toward Denise because I thought we were going to be avenging this great wrong, but you were right. It turned out to be nothing, and you put a lot of work into running down the lead. You need a real story out of this podcast so that you can go on to a great college and do good things. I just need to graduate from high school. You need this more than I do. You should take the Boggs story.”

I consider it for a moment, fixated on Bristal’s shoe, and the widening space where I can see the beginnings of a hole, and the flash of her sock.

“No,” I say. “Your mom was the source, you ran the risk of procuring the case file, you did the research. This is your episode. I’m not letting another Jamison stick their neck out for a Chass. The Boggs’s episode is yours, murder pennies and all.”

“Murder pennies,” Bristal growls under her breath, then brightens up. “Can I talk about the price of a blow job in 1994?”

I hop off the car and stick a hand out to help Bristal to her feet. “Why do you ask permission? You’re just going to do what you want anyway.”

“Awww,” she says, grabbing on to my hand and pulling herself up. “It’s like you know me.”

“You still want to come with me to the dog pound to interview Linda Chance after school?” I ask.

“Planning on it,” Bristal says, tapping away at her phone. “First I’ve got to make a note here to add to the Boggs’s episode that the older generations in Henley all need to get tested for STDs.”

“If they had any STDs from the Fairlawn, they’d certainly know by now,” I tell her, pulling open my car door.

She shakes her head. “Not if it was blue waffle. That can take some time to become symptomatic.”

“I don’t really know much about STDs,” I admit, starting my car and flicking on the heated seat.

“Definitely Google it,” Bristal tells me. “I mean you are going to college, right?”

“Fingers crossed,” I tell her, my stomach taking an unexpected plummet. I draw in a deep breath. I was right to give Bristal the episode, but that doesn’t mean that it won’t hurt me in the end. There’s still time, I know. I could change my mind, tell Bristal I want the episode. She’d give it to me, and maybe it would be the tipping point that makes Harvard or Columbia recognize that I’m doing real work, here in Henley.

The leather underneath me heats up, radiating warmth through my body, easing out the chill from the wind that had settled into my bones. I look at the hole in Bristal’s shoe.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell her.

Thirty-Six

Excerpt from podcast episode “Your Grandma Mighta Been a Ho” of On the Ground in Flyover Country

Welcome back to On the Ground in Flyover Country. I’m your host, Bristal Jamison, and this week we’ll be talking about the fact that your grandpa was probably a cheater and your grandma might’ve been a ho. Mrs. Levering, don’t turn this off. I swear there’s historical significance. This episode picks up where last week’s left off—with the long stretch of bad days—and I’ll be focusing on the one and only murder that Henley has on the books.

Randall Boggs lived a solitary life out on Far Cry Road—which, by the way, has two origin stories for its name. Yes, it’s a far cry from town, but any resident that lives near the creek bed can tell you there’s a more sinister tale as well. One that will raise the hair on the back of your neck and make you dive for safety, if you hear it. Well, it will if you’re Lydia Chass. If you’re me, you can recognize a fox call when you hear it. And yes, it’s a fox. All you bigfoot weirdos can get aggressive with me in the comments. Let’s go.