Page 113 of Property of Whiskey

It ain’t fancy. I keep it clean because I’ve got a kid, and comfortable because Wren has spent years turning every room into proof she lives here. Crayons share the junk drawer with batteries and spare screws. Hair ties collect around the bathroom faucet faster than I can throw them away. Two dolls are permanently lost beneath the couch, and a cardboard castle takes up half the living room because Wren informed me it is permanent, and I apparently don’t own enough authority to overrule zoning decisions.

Twila sees all of it.

And I hate that I care what she thinks. “What?”

“Not what I expected for a biker.”

“You expected skulls?” I ask.

“Maybe.”

“Drug lab?”

“Little.”

“Women chained to radiators?”

She gives me a look.

“That joke ain’t as funny as you think.”

“Chained?” I toss my keys into the bowl beside the door.

Her eyes follow them.

I point at her. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t move.”

“You thought about it.”

“I think about lots of things.”

“Know that too.”

Her eyes narrow, but before she can fire back, tires crunch over gravel outside.

Twila’s head turns toward the window at the same instant my hand moves toward the pistol beneath my cut.

Wrong engine. Not Mama. A county cruiser rolls into my driveway.

Shit.

“Bedroom.”

Twila looks at me. “What?”

“Your daddy’s here.”

The color leaves her face. The cruiser stops, and Sheriff Amos Dix gets out. Twila moves toward the front window.

I catch her wrist. She looks down at my hand. Then up at me.

And I hear myself. Another command. Another hand around her. Another choice I’m trying to make because I’m scared of what happens if she makes the wrong one.

I release her immediately and step completely away from the door.

“You can walk out that door.”