Page 290 of Property of Whiskey

Pearly Gates Youth & Family Retreat.

Inside are old brochures, photocopies, property records, donation sheets, and handwritten notes in Amos’s blocky cop handwriting. One grainy photograph shows a community fundraiser from years ago with a younger Reverend Crowley standing beside a banner, one hand raised like he’s blessing whoever took the picture.

The man looks harmless, which is usually when I start assuming the opposite. Clean white shirt. Gray already starting at his temples. Good teeth. Pleasant smile. The kind of face people welcome into schools, hospitals, churches, and grieving families without asking why he’s there.

I’ve always hated the man.

Twila taps one of the papers. “Ruthanne Peck.”

Amos nods.

Her name sits halfway down an old volunteer list, nothing prominent about it. Just another woman mixed among dozens of church volunteers.

“That was ten months before the girl was found,” Amos says.

“You checked volunteers after Peck picked her up?”

“Tried.”

“Crowley?”

“No. Couldn’t accuse a man of God so easily without causing a big scene.”

I pick up another page. “Board donors.”

“Some of them.”

My eyes move down the list until one name catches.

“Montgomery.”

Twila leans over my shoulder.

There it is, though not Sophie’s father’s name directly. A charitable trust called the Montgomery Family Community Fund, followed by dates and donation amounts that aren’t enormous by rich-people standards but are more than enough to matter.

Treasurer brain takes over. I stop reading names and start reading dates, amounts, and where the money landed. Numbers don’t give a shit whether the name printed above them is respectable.

Twila looks at Amos. “You showed Sophie’s father this?”

“Not this exact sheet.”

“But you asked him about the contributions.”

“Yes.”

“And he acted like lawyers handled it.”

“More or less.”

I scan the page. “These payments could be clean.”

“They could.”

“Could be dirty.”

“Yes.”

“Helpful.”