Page 314 of Property of Whiskey

Normal is good camouflage too.

I spend the first hour doing actual work. Reports, calls, a complaint about somebody’s goat escaping again, followed by a parking dispute outside the pharmacy.

I almost appreciate the goat. Goats are uncomplicated.

At ten twenty-seven, I walk outside with coffee in one hand and my phone recording inside my pocket. The body cam clipped to my uniform is already running.

Daddy knows what I’m doing.

Legend knows.

Whiskey knows.

Nobody likes it.

I don’t give a damn.

At ten thirty-four, a black SUV pulls into the visitor lot.

For one beat, I feel nothing.

Then the driver’s door opens.

Reverend Crowley steps out.

Clean navy suit. White shirt. No clerical collar. Silver hair neat. Pleasant smile. The kind of man a church committee would trust with the budget and somebody’s grandmother would insist makes wonderful potato salad.

He closes the door gently, studies the sheriff’s department, then finds me beside my patrol unit.

“Deputy Dix.”

My skin crawls.

I take a drink of coffee. “Reverend.”

He walks closer without coming near enough to crowd me.

Smart.

“I hoped we might speak somewhere less theatrical than Mercy House.”

I smile. “You mean somewhere you don’t keep restraints bolted to walls?”

His pleasant expression doesn’t move. “Old buildings collect ugly histories.”

“So do old churches.”

“People, unfortunately, are capable of many ugly things.”

“Funny how often you’re standing nearby when they happen.”

That earns me the smallest pause.

He clasps his hands loosely in front of himself. “I understand you have questions.”

“I have plenty.”

“Your father did too once.”