Page 270 of Property of Whiskey

“What?”

“You call to talk to me, then the second you hear a man in the room, you decide you need to talk to him instead.”

“That man assaulted a deputy.”

“Me.”

“Yes.”

“Then talk to me.”

Another silence follows, but this one feels different.

Whiskey stops smiling.

Daddy finally says, “Come over.”

“To your house?”

“Yes.”

“Not the station?”

“No.”

That gets my attention.

Daddy lives in the same brick ranch outside Paradise where I grew up. Same porch Mama used to sit on with sweet tea balanced on the arm of her chair. Same narrow hallway where my high school wrestling pictures are probably still hanging because Daddy doesn’t understand the concept of redecorating.

Something about him wanting this conversation there instead of behind a desk tells me he already knows what I’m going to ask.

“Okay.”

“Alone.”

“No.”

“Twila.”

“Whiskey comes or I don’t.”

Whiskey looks at me. I know what he’s thinking. I don’t need him. That ain’t why I want him there.

Daddy breathes through his nose. “You trust him?”

I don’t answer fast enough. Whiskey looks away. That bothers me. “I trust him to stand beside me.”

His gaze comes back.

Daddy says, “That ain’t what I asked.”

“It’s the answer I’ve got.”

A long pause.

“Fine.”

He hangs up.