Page 265 of Property of Whiskey

Twila whispers, “Oh, shit.”

“Yeah.”

Sheriff Dix starts walking. Not fast. Menacing.

Twila straightens. I step beside her. Not in front. She notices.

Amos stops about five feet away. “Twila.”

“Daddy.”

His eyes move over her with the precision of a cop and the fear of a father, searching for injuries, restraint marks, anything that tells him she isn’t standing here because she chose to.

Whatever he expected, he doesn’t find it. Then he looks at me before coming back to her. “Come home.”

Twila’s face tightens. “Daddy. I’m not doing this here.”

His hand settles near his belt, not on his gun exactly, but close enough to show where two days of fear have been living. “I’ve spent two days trying to find you.”

“I know.”

“You know.”

“Yes.”

“You let me think that man had you somewhere against your will.”

I start to speak. Twila catches my hand. Not to silence me. To stop me from stepping in. She handles this.

I let her.

“I was held against my will at first.”

Amos’s eyes flash murder at me.

“Twila.”

“I said at first.”

His gaze drops to our joined hands. That hurts him. I see it. She does too.

“You’re free to go?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“He ain’t threatening you?”

“No.”

“Blackmailing you?”

“No.”

“Keeping your badge? Your phone? Your gun?”

Twila goes quiet.

The hallway is still busy around us, but everybody close enough to hear has suddenly found another direction to look.