Page 275 of Property of Whiskey

Whiskey mutters, “Fuck.”

Daddy’s eyes snap to him. “Watch it.”

Whiskey looks across the table at him. “With respect, Sheriff, ain’t the fucking time.”

“Did she say Crowley?” I ask.

“No.”

“Pearly Gates?”

“Not directly.”

“But you connected it.”

“Eventually.”

“How?”

“She had something in the coat pocket.”

Daddy gets up and walks to the old china cabinet against the wall, the one Mama used to keep holiday dishes in. He kneels, opens the bottom drawer, and reaches all the way to the back.

I stare. “You kept it?”

He doesn’t answer.

He pulls out a manila envelope old enough that the corners have softened and the paper has yellowed where somebody has handled it over the years.

He lays it on the table.

My pulse picks up.

Daddy opens the envelope and slides out an old laminated card.

White background. Gold border. Two wrought-iron gates across the top.

PEARLY GATES YOUTH & FAMILY RETREAT.

Same style as the card Whiskey and I found in his woods.

I look at Whiskey.

He’s already reaching inside his cut for his phone. He pulls up the photograph we took and turns the screen toward Daddy.

Daddy’s face drains. “Where did you get that?”

Whiskey looks at me.

My story.

I answer.

“Woods outside Whiskey’s.”

Daddy’s head snaps toward me. “Somebody was on his property?”

“Fresh boot prints.”