Page 344 of Property of Whiskey

Behind her, Whiskey silently points toward the hallway with his spatula.

I look at him.

He points again.

Toward his bedroom.

Toward his closet.

I stop in the doorway. “You moved my clothes.”

“Nope.”

“You absolutely moved my clothes.”

“Organized.”

“Without asking.”

“You left ‘em everywhere.”

“They were in a bag.”

“In my room.”

“That don’t make them yours.”

Wren calmly cuts another piece of pancake. “That means they live here.”

I look at her. “Whose side are you on?”

“Daddy’s.”

“Why?”

“He makes pancakes.”

Whiskey looks smug. “Smart kid.”

“Traitor.”

Wren shrugs. “Want one?”

I look at the pancake, then at her.

“Yes.”

“See?”

Apparently bribery works.

Beth filed for a visitation review like she threatened. Nothing’s changed with custody yet, and Whiskey says if she proves she can be safe and sober long enough to earn supervised time with Wren, they’ll deal with it then.

The front door opens without knocking. Glamaw walks in carrying a grocery bag and enough confidence to suggest locks are mostly decorative. She takes in me wearing Whiskey’s shirt, my coffee, Wren at the table, and her son cooking breakfast.

Her entire face lights up. She sets the grocery bag on the counter. “Girl’s practically moved in.”

“I have a house.”