Page 236 of Property of Whiskey

Whiskey is scared. “They’ve been near my house.”

“We don’t know whoever made that print came from Pearly Gates.”

“You wanna bet Wren on it?”

“No. Absolutely fucking not.”

He turns uphill. “We’re done out here.”

I follow for about six steps before he says, “You ain’t going anywhere alone.”

“What?”

“You’re not going home tomorrow. You stay at my house.”

I stop.

Whiskey gets another two steps before realizing I’m no longer beside him. He turns, rainwater dripping from his hair onto the shoulders of his cut.

“Come on.”

“No.”

His hand closes harder around the flashlight. “Twila.”

“You do not get to make that decision.”

“Somebody connected to Pearly Gates might’ve been fifty yards from my kid’s bedroom.”

“I know.”

“And they know you are on to them as well.”

“I know.”

“So until this shit’s done, you’re staying with me.”

“That is not your choice.”

“It is.”

I laugh once, and there isn’t anything warm in it. “Interesting.”

He understands immediately, anger receding just enough for regret to show. “That ain’t fair.”

“Everybody loves me so much they keep building walls. Remember?”

“Fuck. That ain’t what I’m doing.”

“You just told me where I’m staying.”

“Because somebody might be trying to kill you.”

“I know.”

“Then why the fuck are we arguing?”

“Because you’re not asking.”