Page 283 of Property of Whiskey

Whiskey glances at me.

I shake my head once.

Not his conversation.

He looks back at Daddy. “She asked you.”

Daddy studies him. “You got anything to say at all?”

Whiskey leans back. “Nope.”

“Bullshit.”

“Got plenty.”

“Then say it.”

Whiskey’s eyes come to me first, then go back to Daddy. “She asked you.”

Daddy frowns. “What the hell’s that mean?”

“Means this is between you and your daughter.”

The kitchen goes quiet again.

Daddy scratches at the gray along his jaw. “You’re different than I expected.”

I pick up the photograph of sixteen-year-old me. “Do you still have the original file?”

“What’s left of it.”

“Where?”

“Not the department.”

Good answer.

“Where?”

He hesitates. “Your mama’s things.”

I blink. “What?”

“Box in the attic. Old quilt chest.”

“You hid evidence with Mama’s stuff?”

“Nobody touched her things.”

That is so sad and so smart I don’t know what the hell to do with it. “You have everything?”

“Everything I kept before the report started disappearing. Copies. Notes. Names. Phone numbers. Some property records.”

Whiskey straightens. “Property?”

Daddy’s eyes narrow. “Thought you weren’t talking.”

“Made an exception.”