Page 285 of Property of Whiskey

Daddy’s face darkens.

“I could still take you in,” Daddy and I say at exactly the same time.

Whiskey looks between us. “Jesus.”

I laugh.

Can’t help it. Daddy doesn’t, but the corner of his mouth almost moves.

Then he reaches across the table and turns the photograph of teenage me facedown.

“I should’ve told you years ago.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

The apology knocks the air out of me. Daddy doesn’t apologize easily. Neither do I.

Probably hereditary.

“I’m still mad.”

“I know.”

“I understand why you did it.”

His eyes close briefly. “That don’t make it right.”

“No.”

“I won’t forgive you tonight.”

“I ain’t asking you to.”

That helps. A lot. I reach across the table and put my hand over his. His fingers close around mine immediately.

Same hand that taught me to throw a ball, shoot, drive, and fill out my first arrest report. Same man who spent twelve years terrified of losing me and made so many bad decisions because of it.

“You don’t get to lock me out anymore.”

Daddy looks at me. “I know.”

“No more clearing my access.”

“That wasn’t me.”

“No more ordering me off cases because you’re scared.”

His fingers tighten around mine. “That one’s harder.”

“Daddy.”

“I’m being honest.”

“Try harder.”

He exhales. “Fine.”