Page 37 of Property of Whiskey

Every bit of lazy afternoon disappears. My grip tightens around the phone.

“What about her?”

“Deputy Dix has been asking about old property around Pearly Gates all morning. Somebody reported it back.”

I think of the nervous man across from the clubhouse. The way he kept checking the street. The way he bolted the second he saw my cut.

Fuck.

Twila was already digging around Pearly Gates before this morning. That part ain’t new. Somebody inside is paying enough attention to know her name, track what she’s asking, and report it up the chain.

The danger just noticed her back.

“Where is she now?”

“We don’t know.”

I grab my keys from the hook.

Wren looks up from the table. “Where are you going?”

I stop.

Her ecosystem is finished. Soup is heating. Two pieces of bread wait beside the skillet.

My daughter is looking at the keys in my hand like she already knows exactly what they mean.

The old choice opens in front of me again. Never enough of me to go around. Club, family, and somewhere at the bottom of the list, me.

I point toward the stove. “Turn that burner off.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

She gives me a look.

Right.

Bad choice of words in this house too.

“I need to make another call outside.”

“You just made one.”

“Another one.”

“That’s suspicious.”

“You’re seven.”

“I ain’t dumb.”

I walk back into the kitchen and turn off the burner myself. Then I crouch in front of her. “I might have to go out.”

Her face falls before she can hide it.

“The project’s done,” she says. “But it’s a weeknight and Glamaw only does pickup and the night shift.”