Page 110 of Property of Whiskey

That gets her attention.

“Your house?”

“Yeah.”

“Where Wren lives.”

My hand stops on my own helmet strap.

I don’t like how quickly she says my daughter’s name. Not because Twila did anything wrong. Because Wren and Twila have lived in two different boxes inside my head since this shit started.

One safe. One dangerous.

Putting them beneath the same roof feels like storing gasoline next to fireworks because you got bored.

“Wren ain’t there.”

“She’s with your mom.”

“School.”

“Then she’ll be back. Why your house?”

“Mama wants her house back. She’ll bring Wren here after school.”

The teasing leaves Twila’s face. “You think somebody looking for me?”

“I think somebody knows enough that I’m done taking chances with Mama’s address.”

“You could take me to my father.”

“Nope.”

“You almost sound reasonable, then remember you’re a criminal.”

“Consistency matters.”

She shoves the helmet on, catches half her blonde hair beneath the strap, and curses.

I reach toward her automatically. “Hold still.”

“I can do it.”

“I can see that.”

She swats my hand.

I catch hers.

Her eyes lift to mine, and for one beat neither of us moves.

Same heat as Mama’s basement. Same damn problem.

Then she pulls her hand free. “Quit touching me.”

“You climbed into my lap last night.”

“That was different.”