Page 327 of Property of Whiskey

“You love it.” The word comes out before I think about what I’m saying.

Whiskey’s expression changes. “Yeah, I do.”

My expression changes too. “You mean?”

Daddy is standing five feet away. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Whiskey goes quiet. No joke, no grin, nothing smartass enough to hide behind. “Yeah.”

Daddy looks between us before closing his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

I almost laugh.

Whiskey never looks away from me.

“Yeah,” he says again, quieter.

I know what he means.

He ain’t saying it.

Not yet.

Neither am I.

But it’s there between us anyway, big and ugly and terrifying and looking suspiciously permanent.

I clear my throat. “Crowley got away.”

Whiskey’s mouth finally starts to curve. “Coward.”

“You let him.”

“Was busy not murdering Pike because my deputy told me to stop.”

I narrow my eyes. “Your deputy?”

Then Daddy’s radio crackles.

Dispatch.

His face loses what little humor it had as he listens.

“What?”

He holds up one hand. “Say again.”

Static scratches from the radio before the dispatcher repeats it.

“Units checked Pearly Gates main property.”

My stomach drops.

Daddy looks at me. “Mostly empty.”

Whiskey swears.

“Mostly?”