Page 70 of Property of Whiskey

“Take these off.”

“No.”

“You can’t fucking hold me here.”

“Already doing it.”

“I’m a deputy.”

“You’ve mentioned that.”

“My father is the sheriff.”

“Really?”

“He will find me.”

“Probably.”

“And then he’ll kill you.”

Whiskey nudges the plastic Santa box out of his path with one boot like we’re discussing weather instead of his probable murder.

“That part’s getting repetitive.”

I step closer. “You think because you dragged me into some sweet little old lady’s basement this is less of a kidnapping?”

“My mama ain’t that old and sure as heck ain’t that sweet.”

“That’s your defense?”

“No. Just don’t call her old to her face or you’ll learn how sweet she’s not.”

I turn toward the stairs.

Whiskey catches me around the middle.

Again.

“Let go.”

“No.”

“I swear to God…”

“You do a lot of swearing for law enforcement.”

He steers me toward a support post beside the old workbench.

Then I see the chain.

A length of heavy metal is already looped around the base of the post.

My weight shifts automatically. Even cuffed, I move one boot back and angle my shoulders, measuring the distance to the stairs, the workbench, the tools, and Whiskey.

Then I slowly turn my head toward him.

“Whiskey.”