Page 39 of Property of Whiskey

“That the missin’ frog?”

“An apex predator,” Wren corrects.

Glamaw bends over the green bottle cap with peppercorn eyes. “Looks possessed.”

Wren beams. “Daddy made him.”

“Explains it.”

“Glad I called you.”

“You should be.” Mama turns toward me, and the teasing leaves her face the second she sees the keys in my hand. She straightens, one hand settling on the back of Wren’s chair like she’s already bracing to take over whatever I’m leaving behind.

“Club?”

“Something like that.”

“You coming back?”

Wren looks up.

Hell.

I crouch beside her chair and pull the zipper on her hoodie higher because she always claims she ain’t cold five minutes before complaining she’s freezing.

“I’m coming back.”

“When?”

“Soon as I can.”

“That ain’t a time.”

I force one corner of my mouth up because she’s watching too damn close. “You been hanging around me too much.”

“You’re my dad.”

“Sorry.”

She gives me a look that belongs on a woman three times her age. “You gonna be home to tuck me in?”

Yesterday, I might’ve said yes because she wanted me to. Today, I know better than promising shit I might not control.

“I’m gonna try like hell.”

Her little mouth pulls down.

I tap one finger against the bottle-cap frog. “Keep him from eating the deer.”

“Prickle is an apex predator too.”

They have names now. “He’s deadly.”

She seems satisfied with that. I kiss the top of her head, straighten, and look at Mama. “Door stays locked.”

“I know it.”

“Don’t answer it unless you know who it is.”