Page 220 of Property of Whiskey

“He wants to show her.”

A chill crawls between my shoulder blades, and Whiskey catches it immediately. I crouch in front of Wren until we’re eye level. “What does Prickle want to show me?”

She thinks about it hard enough that her nose wrinkles. “I don’t know.”

“Did he tell you?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

She shrugs beneath the blanket. “He waits.”

Whiskey mutters something suspiciously close to fuck this shit and walks toward the living room.

I straighten. “Where are you going?”

“To check every lock.”

Wren looks at me solemnly. “Daddy’s scared of Prickle.”

“I ain’t scared,” Whiskey calls from the living room.

Wren gives me a look that says we both know better.

I bite my lip.

A few seconds later, Whiskey reappears carrying his phone and a flashlight, already moving through the house with the same focused efficiency he uses when something club-related goes wrong.

“Baby, you’re staying inside.”

“I know.”

“Away from windows.”

“I know.”

“Don’t open the door.”

“I know.”

“Don’t…”

“Daddy.”

“What?”

“I know.”

He exhales through his nose and looks at her like he wants to wrap the entire house in steel, barbed wire, and armed Kings. Then he calls Holler.

I glance at the wall clock. “You’re calling him at four twenty in the morning?”

“Yep.”

“He’s gonna kill you.”

I can hear him through the phone. Holler eventually says, “You’re calling me at four in the morning over an imaginary deer?”