Page 18 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3

lyne arm the pipe that carries vapor from the still to the condenser, impacting flavor profile

THE GENERAL store's weathered wooden steps creaked beneath my feet as I waited for Marilyn to emerge from inside. Through the screen door, I could hear the distant murmur of voices and the electronic beep of the cash register processing transactions.

When Marilyn finally pushed through the screen door, a plastic bag containing what looked like instant ramen and energy drinks clutched in her thin fingers, she stopped short at the sight of me blocking her path.

Her dark eyes immediately narrowed with suspicion, and her shoulders tensed like an animal preparing for confrontation.

"What do you want?" she asked, her voice carrying the defensive edge I'd come to associate with her interactions.

"I want to know if you took my things," I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded despite the nervous flutter in my chest. "Someone broke into my van on Tuesday and stole cash, and some personal things."

Marilyn's face flushed red with anger, the color stark against her pale complexion. "And you automatically assume it was me?"

"I'm not assuming anything. I'm asking."

"Well, the answer is no," she snapped, shifting her weight from foot to foot with agitated energy. "I'm not a thief."

I studied her face carefully, searching for tells that might indicate deception. But her anger seemed genuine, her indignation raw and unfiltered. Still, I pressed forward with the conversation that had been eating at me for days.

"Some of those things belonged to my mother," I said quietly, keeping my voice calm and non-accusatory. "She died earlier this year, and they're the only mementos I have left of her. They wouldn't be worth much to anyone else, but they mean a lot to me."

Something shifted in Marilyn's expression—not softness exactly, but a flicker of what might have been understanding before her defensive walls slammed back into place with renewed force.

"Oh, boo-hoo," she said with vicious mockery, her voice dripping with contempt. "A grown woman, crying over dead mommy's trinkets. At least your mother died… mine just up and left."

The words hit me like physical blows, each one carefully chosen to inflict maximum damage. My breath caught in my throat, and I felt tears spring to my eyes despite my efforts to maintain composure. The cruelty was breathtaking, made worse by the kernel of pain beneath her venom.

"You, stay away from me," she said pointedly. She turned and walked away with quick, angry strides.

I stood frozen on the general store steps, her words echoing in my mind. Dead mommy's trinkets.

I still didn't know if Marilyn had stolen my belongings, but her words had accomplished something theft never could—they'd stolen a piece of my peace, and laid open my grief all over again.