Page 118 of Property of Whiskey

“Fuck.”

Behind me, my bedroom door opens. I turn. Twila stands at the end of the hall, pale and red-eyed.

She cracks a joke first. “I’m flattered, but why is my ass covered?”

Damn, I forgot I had a Twister Dix poster in my attached bathroom for reasons. “I have a daughter so yeah, I covered up your ass cheeks.” I pinned a map of Hell over her Daisy Dukes. “Nothing wrong with them. She’s young, and I don’t want her to grow up thinking her daddy’s a pervert.”

“I thought my daddy burned all the posters.”

“Collector’s edition. I have connections.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Why didn’t you go?”

She folds her arms, then drops them almost immediately, too wound up to hold the posture. “I don’t know.”

“Bullshit.”

“I said I don’t know.”

“You heard him.”

“Yes.”

“He’s scared shitless.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve walked out.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve yelled.”

“I know.”

Fear looks for somewhere to go, and mine turns into anger before I can stop it. “Then why the fuck didn’t you?”

Her eyes flash. “Quit yelling at me.”

“Answer.”

“I don’t have one!”

“Make one up.”

“Fine. Maybe because I don’t know who to trust either!”

Silence slams into the room.

Her gaze drops away from mine as soon as the words are out, like admitting doubt about Amos costs her something physical.

“I still don’t believe Daddy’s dirty.”

“Neither do I.”

“He sounded terrified.”