Page 302 of Property of Whiskey

“But?”

She looks from the dress to the bag. “Feels like shit odds.”

Yeah.

It does.

Somebody carrying material tied to this place was in the woods behind my daughter’s bedroom.

My hand closes around the edge of the closet door hard enough that the old wood complains beneath my grip.

Twila closes her fingers around my wrist. “Whiskey.”

I look down.

“Don’t break evidence.”

Her voice is calm, almost teasing, just enough to pull me back without making me feel handled.

I let go.

“Bossy.”

“Yeah.”

That earns her a look.

We keep moving.

The back room looks like an office somebody emptied in a hurry. Desk drawers stand open, and one filing cabinet has been stripped almost bare except for a single locked drawer.

Royal kicks it.

Metal bangs loud enough to echo through the house.

Twila sighs. “Subtle.”

“Opened.”

“Evidence integrity.”

“Crime already happened.”

“Still.”

Legend crouches and pulls out what remains.

Most of the folders are empty, but a few contain old registration sheets listing initials, dates, and intake numbers instead of full names. Twila photographs each page before anybody moves it.

Then she stops.

“K.Q.”

I look over her shoulder.

The date is recent enough to matter.

Kaylee Quill.