Page 324 of Property of Whiskey

I almost say it.

Then three cruisers tear into the lot.

Daddy is out of the first one before it completely stops.

He sees me. “Twila!”

“I’m fine.”

He ignores that. Naturally. His gaze moves to Whiskey, the bleeding man on the pavement, then the road where Crowley disappeared.

“Who the hell?”

“Crowley’s man.”

Daddy starts toward the guy.

Then stops himself. Looks at me. Something changes. Old Daddy would already be taking over, moving people, issuing orders, asking questions later because he convinced himself control was the same thing as protecting me.

Instead, he asks, “What do you need?”

My throat tightens. “Cuffs.”

Daddy pulls a set from his belt and tosses them.

I catch them.

Whiskey steps aside.

I kneel beside Crowley’s man, who glares at me through a face streaked with blood.

“Turn over.”

“Fuck you.”

I smile. “People keep saying that today.”

Whiskey mutters, “Popular request.”

I glance up. “Behave.”

“Am.”

Barely.

I cuff the man, read him his rights, and search him before another deputy gets close enough to contaminate anything useful.

There’s another handgun, a folding knife, two phones, keys, and a wallet. His identification says HARLAN PIKE, with an address outside Official.

Then I pull a plastic keycard from his jacket.

Pearly Gates Community Ministries.

Well, fuck me.

Daddy sees it over my shoulder. “Bag it.”

“I know.”