Page 69 of Property of Whiskey

“Fair point.”

I kick him in the stomach.

He swears and keeps moving.

The inside of the house is worse. Not dangerous worse. Normal worse.

Family photographs cover one wall. A peach crocheted blanket is folded over the couch, a bowl of hard candy sits on the coffee table, and an old wooden sign near the kitchen says BLESS THIS MESS. Floral curtains frame the windows, fading sunlight glowing through little pink flowers while Whiskey carries a handcuffed deputy across polished hardwood.

The house smells faintly like cinnamon, furniture polish, and the remains of whatever candle his Mama had burning earlier.

Serial killers have mothers too.

I repeat that twice in my head.

Whiskey shoulders open a door near the kitchen.

Stairs descend into darkness.

Fuck.

“Basement?” I ask.

“Basement.”

“You know how bad this looks?”

“Yeah.”

“You planning to chop me into pieces?”

“Too tall. Freezer ain’t big enough.”

I smack his back again.

“That ain’t funny.”

“Little funny.”

He carries me downstairs.

The basement is somehow even less murderous than the rest of the house.

An old brown sectional faces a television that probably weighs more than I do. A washer and dryer sit beneath a small window near the ceiling. Metal shelves are stacked with canned vegetables, cleaning supplies, old toys, and Christmas decorations. A plastic Santa smiles at me from an open box beside an exercise bike with towels hanging from the handlebars.

There’s a chest freezer.

Of course there’s a chest freezer.

A scarred workbench runs along one wall, and enough ceramic angels are lined across a shelf to make me deeply suspicious of his mother’s decorating choices.

Whiskey finally sets me on my feet.

I immediately swing my cuffed hands toward his head.

He ducks.

“Goddammit.”