Page 315 of Property of Whiskey

There it is. No warm-up. He wants me afraid.

I lean one hip against the Interceptor and make myself look casual. “You seem to know a lot about my father.”

“I’ve known of Sheriff Dix for many years.”

“Known of me too?”

Crowley smiles. “Paradise is a small place.”

“My mother?”

That lands differently.

His head tilts. “Laura.”

Everything inside me turns cold.

“Her name was Laurel.”

His smile barely changes. “My apologies.”

Fuck him. That wasn’t a mistake. He wanted me to correct him. Wanted to see whether the name mattered enough to make me react.

“Don’t say her name.”

“She was a very beautiful woman.”

My fingers tighten around the coffee cup. “You never knew her.”

“Didn’t I.”

“Did you?”

“I remember the obituary.”

“Why?”

He looks briefly toward the flag stirring above the building. “Community awareness.”

“Bullshit.”

His attention returns to me. “You have her directness.”

“I got her temper too.”

“So I’ve heard.”

From who?

I don’t ask.

Not yet.

“Mercy House,” I say. “What was it really for?”

Crowley sighs as though I’m a difficult child. “A residential outreach program.”

“For captive girls?”