Page 205 of Property of Whiskey

“Window?”

Locked.

Curtains closed.

I part them anyway and scan the yard. Porch light fading into black grass. Trees beyond it. No movement along the line where Wren claims her strange little friend stands watching the road.

Only then do I let the curtain fall.

Wren whispers, “Prickle doesn’t come inside.”

“Good.”

“He says houses are people nests.”

I turn around slowly.

Twila’s face has gone blank.

“What?”

She shakes her head. “Nope.”

“Nope what?”

“Not discussing that at midnight.”

“Thank you.”

Wren yawns again.

Twila leans over the bed. “Go to sleep.”

Wren looks at her. “You staying for breakfast?”

Twila pauses.

I stop breathing like an idiot.

Then she says, “Yeah.”

Wren closes her eyes. “Okay.”

Five minutes later, she’s actually out, breathing slow and deep while her hand stays curled beside her cheek.

Twila and I step into the dim hallway. Wren’s night-light spills purple across the floor behind us, and the rest of the house is quiet enough that I can hear the refrigerator kick on in the kitchen.

My daughter is asleep six feet away.

Suddenly every dirty thought I’ve had about Twila since she bled on my damn thumb feels loud enough to wake her.

Twila whispers, “You’re staring again.”

“Yeah.”

“What now?”

“You fit.”