Page 326 of Property of Whiskey

Whiskey looks toward the road where Crowley disappeared. “Motherfucker.”

I read the messages again.

The child is leverage only.

No contact without my order.

That ain’t some random thug improvising.

That is surveillance, planning, and somebody high enough in the chain to give orders about exactly how much damage is permitted.

Control.

Me leaving my house. Me at Heck’s Kitchen. My Interceptor outside the department. Whiskey’s Harley at my place.

Then Wren’s school. The front sign. Pickup lane. A photograph of Glamaw’s car.

The silence coming off Whiskey is worse than screaming.

I step directly into his line of sight. “Look at me.”

He does.

“She’s safe.”

“Right now.”

“Yes.”

“He had her school.”

“I know.”

“Her fucking school, Twila.”

“I know.”

Daddy steps closer. “I’m putting a unit there.”

Whiskey looks at him. “No uniforms near her classroom.”

Daddy nods immediately. “Plainclothes.”

Whiskey blinks once.

Probably expected a fight.

Daddy doesn’t give him one.

Funny what threatening a seven-year-old can do for male diplomacy.

I touch Whiskey’s arm. “He didn’t get near her.”

“That we know.”

“We know she’s safe.”

His eyes come back to mine. “You scared the shit outta me.”