Page 202 of Property of Whiskey

“Daddy?”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes barely open. “You came back.”

“Told you I would.”

“Twila too?”

My gaze finds Twila. She’s standing right there with Wren’s marker still in one hand.

“Yeah.”

Wren smiles without really waking. “Knew it.”

Twila raises an eyebrow.

I carry Wren down the hall.

Twila follows. The fact that she keeps doing that is starting to do something stupid in my head.

Wren’s room looks like a glitter store got hit by a tornado. Purple walls disappear beneath drawings, stickers, and enough glow-in-the-dark stars to map a second universe across the ceiling. Stuffed animals have conquered half the bed, and the bottle-cap frog from her ecosystem project sits on the dresser beside a plastic dinosaur wearing one of Wren’s bracelets.

I lower her onto the mattress.

Wren immediately reaches for me. “Stay.”

“I’m here.”

“Till I sleep.”

“You are asleep.”

“No.”

Her eyes are closed.

Twila makes a tiny sound behind me.

I glance over.

She’s smiling, but there’s nothing mean or amused about it. It’s soft, and I don’t know what the fuck to do with soft Twila.

Angry Twila makes sense. Smartass Twila makes me hard. This version feels like somebody slid a knife somewhere important and told me not to move.

Wren cracks one eye open. “Twila?”

“Yeah?”

“Come here.”

Twila points at herself.

Wren nods.

She steps closer to the bed. “What?”

“Daddy thinks Prickle’s fake.”