Page 178 of Property of Whiskey

“Makes sense.”

“That ain’t an excuse.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

I look at him.

There’s no argument waiting, no defense of Daddy just because grief explains some of what happened afterward. Only understanding.

That might be worse.

“He lost her,” I say. “Then decided he wasn’t losing me.”

Whiskey studies the photograph another moment. “Except sometimes holding on too hard does the job anyway.”

I look away. “Getting philosophical again.”

“Dangerous habit.”

“Quit.”

“Trying.”

I grab my duffel and head toward the bedroom.

Whiskey follows.

“Why are you following me?”

“Nosy.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“Mostly.”

I open the closet and start pulling out what I actually need, filling the bag with jeans, shirts, an extra uniform undershirt, bras, underwear, socks, and enough toiletries that I won’t have to borrow Whiskey’s three-in-one man sludge.

He leans against the doorframe.

“You gonna supervise my bras too?”

“If needed.”

“It ain’t.”

“Shame.”

I throw a sock at him.

He catches it. “Violence again.”

“Get out.”

He tosses the sock onto the bed, then notices the framed photograph on my dresser.

Fuck.

I forgot it was there.