Page 291 of Property of Whiskey

Amos gives me a look. “You want certainty, find God.”

“Been busy avoiding church.”

Twila snorts.

Amos ignores me.

Probably healthiest.

Then she pulls out an old deed transfer and stops.

“Here.”

I move beside her, but Amos already knows exactly what she found.

MERCY HOUSE.

The title sits at the top of the filing in faded legal type. This isn’t a name dragged out of somebody’s damaged memory or scribbled in an old note. Mercy House was a real property with paperwork behind it.

Underneath the title it reads:

Mercy House for Girls, a residential outreach program administered through Pearly Gates Community Ministries.

Twila reads the line twice before saying, “Girls.”

I look at Amos. “You ever go there?”

“Once.”

“What’d you see?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“The building was shut when I got there. Man on the property told me the program had closed years earlier.”

“What man?”

“Didn’t give a name.”

“You believe him?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

Amos flips through the box until he finds another page. “Property changed owners six months later.”

“To who?”

The transfer names a shell nonprofit I’ve never heard of, but the mailing address matches another church charity in the pile. Different name. Same address. Property changing hands six months later. I handle enough LLCs and property paperwork for the Kings to know what it looks like when somebody wants distance on paper without actually going anywhere.

I whistle softly. “Somebody worked hard.”

“That’s what worried me.”

“People don’t work this hard to hide bake sales.”