Page 226 of Property of Whiskey

“There.”

I start forward.

Whiskey catches my arm. “Wait.”

I pull free. “Somebody’s down there.”

“Which means maybe don’t run straight at ‘em.”

I’m already moving.

“Twila, goddammit.”

Branches slap my arms and wet leaves drag across my sweatshirt as I push downhill. Mud sucks at my boots while the pale shape moves again between the trees and Whiskey crashes through the brush behind me.

“Stop!” I shout.

Brilliant, Twila. Criminals famously respect commands screamed through forests. I speed up.

Whiskey catches the back of my sweatshirt. “Quit running toward murder.”

“Quit fucking touching me.”

“I’m trying to keep you upright.”

“I’m a cop.”

“You’re off duty.”

“Murder don’t keep office hours.”

The ground disappears beneath my next step.

“Twila!”

Not completely, just enough for my boot to hit slick mud at the edge of a shallow embankment and shoot forward.

“Oh, shit!”

Whiskey catches me around the waist. We both go down through wet leaves and mud, my flashlight flying somewhere into the dark. Whiskey lands flat on his back with me sprawled halfway across him, knocking the breath out of both of us.

For one stunned beat, the woods are silent except for us trying to breathe.

Then Whiskey starts laughing.

I lift my head. “You think this is funny?”

“Hilarious.”

“You asshole.”

“You ran down a muddy hill.”

“I was chasing somebody.”

“You were chasing fucking Casper. Or Mama Crowley.”

“That old ghost story? I’m not a child.”