Page 117 of Property of Whiskey

“Means she’s twenty-eight, Sheriff. Might wanna start remembering it.”

“You stay the fuck away from her.”

Little late.

“I ain’t discussing Twila with you.”

“You calling her Twila now?”

Shit.

My fingers tighten around the doorframe because that sounds too much like something I’d say if Wren ever disappeared and some bastard stood in front of me playing games.

Amos sees something in my face.

I hold his stare.

“Everybody calls her Twila.”

“I don’t like the way you say it.” He steps back and points one finger at my chest. “If she turns up hurt, I don’t care what Legend says, what patch you wear, or how many Kings stand between us. I’ll put you in the ground myself.” He glances around the house again, and his gaze catches on Wren’s school picture beside the refrigerator.

Some of the fury eases from his face. “You got a little girl.”

“Yeah.”

“Then you ought to understand.”

I do. That’s the problem.

His voice roughens. “Imagine waking up and not knowing where she is.”

I don’t have to imagine. I know exactly how hell measures time.

“I understand.”

Sheriff Dix studies me. “God help me, if you have something to do with Twila’s disappearance, I’ll make sure you do.”

He turns and walks toward the cruiser, then stops at the steps.

“Weller.”

“What?”

“If she contacts you…”

I wait.

He looks older than he did at Heck’s Kitchen.

“Tell her her daddy ain’t mad.”

Shit.

“Tell her to come home.”

He gets into the cruiser and drives away.

I close the door, turn the dead bolt, then stand there with one hand still on the lock and my forehead pressed to the wood.