Page 299 of Property of Whiskey

Legend looks at me. “You.”

“Yeah.”

Then Twila.

I look at her, and the old instinct rises before I can stop it.

Tell her no. Keep her here where I know she’s safe. I swallow it. “You coming, Deputy?”

Her eyebrows lift. “Yes.”

“Bring your gun.”

That small proud smile appears.

Bullet doesn’t move.

Legend notices. “You staying?”

Bullet glances at Kaylee. “Yeah.”

No explanation.

Kaylee’s shoulders lower.

Legend nods once. “Stay.” He looks at Sophie. “Don’t even dream about it.”

She crosses her arms.

Becki places her hand on her baby bump.

That’s settled.

Chapter Twenty-One

Whiskey

Mercy House sits thirty-five minutes outside Official on a road that looks like it ain’t been maintained since Clinton was in office. Woods crowd close on both sides, swallowing old fence lines beneath brush and weeds, and when the house finally appears beyond a sagging gate, it looks like the land has been trying to reclaim it for years.

The two-story place must’ve been white once. Now the siding has gone dirty gray, paint curling off in strips. Half the windows along one side are boarded, the porch sags in the middle, and an empty rusted sign frame leans near the road with weeds growing through its base.

Nothing identifies the property. Nothing says girls once lived here.

Legend parks first, Royal pulls in behind him, and I take the rear. Twila rides with me even though we could’ve taken one of the club cages.

Didn’t.

She climbs off the Harley and studies the house before removing her helmet completely. Her eyes move from the windows to the porch, then toward the tree line and the rutted drive, taking in sight lines and entrances the way a deputy does even when she ain’t wearing the uniform.

“Looks abandoned.”

Royal says, “That’s usually when horror movies tell you to go inside.”

Twila checks her weapon. “You scared?”

“Of tetanus.”

Legend looks at both of them. “Shut the fuck up.”