Page 196 of Property of Whiskey

Afterward, I end up sprawled across his chest while his hand moves lazily up and down my back. The room smells like sweat, sex, and the faint lavender detergent clinging to my sheets.

It feels normal.

Almost.

Dangerously normal.

Then my phone buzzes somewhere in the pile of clothes.

I lift my head. “You have my phone?”

“Yeah.”

“You asshole.”

“Forgot. Not sure how the ringer got turned back on.”

“Give it.”

Whiskey reaches over the edge of the mattress, stretches too far, and nearly slides off the bed.

I laugh. “Graceful.”

“A naked woman on me affects my balance.”

“Excuses.”

He finds the phone inside his cut and hands it over.

The screen is crowded with missed calls. Daddy several times. Cal. An unknown number.

Whiskey checks his phone too. It’s Glamaw.

Then I see Glamaw’s text.

WREN WANTS TWILA TO SEE THIS.

There’s a picture attached.

The drawing has changed.

Prickle is clearer now, at least as clear as anything drawn in crayon by a seven-year-old can be. Four narrow legs support a body too thin for a healthy deer. Short dark lines rise along its spine, and the antlers curve at odd angles that don’t look right even allowing for childhood anatomy. Its face is long beneath the crayon trees.

Still childish. Still obviously Wren’s drawing.

Still unsettling as hell.

But Prickle isn’t what makes me sit up.

A woman stands beside him.

She’s tall, wearing a white dress with dark hair falling down either side of a face Wren never drew.

I zoom in. “What the fuck?”

Whiskey sits up behind me. “What?”

“The woman.”