Page 13 of Property of Whiskey

“You need to let your daddy handle it.”

“That ain’t an answer.”

“He has more information than you do.”

A loose cart rattles near the entrance, its metal wheels clicking across the asphalt until it bumps a curb. I catch the cart and return it to safety.

“Then he should share it.”

“He’s the sheriff.”

“I noticed.”

“He’s also your father.”

“Hard to miss.”

Lester hooks two fingers beneath the brim of his hat and pushes it back, buying himself a second before answering.

“Kaylee ain’t the first girl to miss a shift and take off.”

“That ain’t what I asked.”

“Young people leave Paradise. Nothin’ here for them. Heck, either.”

“Without their cars?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Without picking up their paychecks? Without taking clothes? Without calling their mothers?”

“Twila.”

“There was another girl from Hell last month. Everybody said she ran off with a trucker.”

“Maybe she did.”

“Her mother said she hated semis.”

“That don’t mean anything.”

“It means she probably didn’t run off with a trucker.”

He looks across the parking lot instead of at me.

I study the angle of his shoulders, the way he keeps checking the store entrance, and the fact he still hasn’t taken another sip of the coffee he usually treats like life support.

“Who else?”

“Go home.”

“Lester.”

“I ain’t getting between you and Amos.” He checks the road, then the storefront again, making sure nobody has wandered close enough to hear us.

“You’re already between us.”

“No. I’m standing beside you. There’s a difference.”