Page 12 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6

active fermentation the stage when yeast is vigorously converting sugars into alcohol

THE STRIP mall sat baking in the afternoon heat like a forgotten casserole, its cracked asphalt parking lot radiating waves that made the air shimmer.

I parked Ginger between a rusted pickup truck and a sedan with a missing hubcap, then made my way past a motley collection of shabby businesses—a gym, a dry cleaner, a pawn shop, and a Waffle House.

The Two Guys Detective Agency occupied a narrow storefront, its glass door decorated with faded gold lettering. Through the window, I could see movement inside and hear raised voices.

"—absolutely ridiculous, Octavia! We can't afford a thousand-dollar espresso machine when we're three months behind on rent!"

"It's an investment in our professional image, Linda! Clients expect certain amenities!"

I cleared my throat, and both women turned toward me with expressions of surprise and mild embarrassment. Linda stood behind a cluttered desk holding what appeared to be an invoice, while Octavia leaned against a filing cabinet with her arms crossed defensively.

"Bernadette from the campground," Octavia said, looking relieved at the interruption. "What a nice surprise."

"Hello." I glanced between the sisters, noting the tension. "I was hoping to speak with you, Octavia."

"Of course. Come into my office." She gestured toward a doorway behind the reception area.

Octavia's office was more luxurious than the reception area by far. I was getting the sense that the two sisters were very different in almost every way.

"Sit," she said, settling behind her desk and pulling out a yellow legal pad. "I'm guessing this isn't a social call."

I perched on the edge of the visitor's chair, my purse clutched in my lap like armor. "I think I found him. My father."

Octavia's pen stopped moving across the pad. "Think?"

"His name is Keith Banyon. He works for a liquor distribution company, and he knew my mother thirty years ago, he told me they dated.

" The words tumbled out in a rush. "But I don't know what to do next.

Before I confront him, I'd like to know what kind of person he is, what kind of family life I might be disrupting. "

"Smart approach," Octavia nodded approvingly. "Charging in blind rarely ends well. What information do you have on him?"

I pulled out the scrap of paper with his address and the notes I'd made from my online searches. "Current address, workplace, marriage license. I also have his car information—gray Lexus sedan." She rattled off his license plate number.

Octavia's eyebrows rose slightly. "Pretty thorough. How did you get the vehicle information?"

"I waited and watched until he left the bar."

"And did you go to his house?"

Heat crept up my neck. "I drove by." I swallowed hard. "Twice."

"Okay." She made more notes on her pad. "Look, I can do some digging—background check, financial records, talk to neighbors, maybe stake out his routine for a few days. Get a sense of who he is when he thinks nobody's watching."

"I don't have much money," I said quickly, my stomach clenching at the thought of detective fees I couldn't afford.

Octavia waved her hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it. Consider it professional development—we don't get many paternity cases."

The relief that washed over me was so intense I almost teared up. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. But I need you to promise me something." Her expression grew serious. "Cool your heels until you hear from me. No more drive-bys, no 'accidental' encounters at his office, no showing up at his favorite restaurant. Let me do my job."

I nodded eagerly. "I promise."

"Good." She stood. "Give me a week or so. I'll reach out when I have something substantial."

As I walked back to my van through the oppressive heat, I felt lighter than I had in days. For the first time since arriving in Kentucky, I wasn't carrying the weight of my search alone.