Page 84 of Property of Whiskey

I straighten against the post.

“Take me to the sheriff’s department.”

“No.”

“My daddy ain’t dirty.”

“Never said he was.”

“You implied it.”

“I said I don’t know who’s safe.”

“He is.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Because he’s my father.” My chin comes up when I say it, daring him to call that loyalty stupid even while some ugly, trained part of my brain whispers that it ain’t evidence.

Whiskey exhales through his nose. “That ain’t evidence, Deputy.”

“He’s been sheriff for…”

“Don’t care if he’s been sheriff since Moses came down the mountain.”

“He would never hurt those girls.”

“Didn’t say he would.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“Could be dirty. Could be scared. Could be somebody under him feeding information. Could be somebody’s got something on him. Could be he knows more than he can say.”

“My daddy ain’t scared.”

“Everybody’s scared of something.”

“You?”

“Yeah.”

The answer comes too easily.

I pause.

“What are you scared of?”

“Nice try.”

“You said ask anything.”

“Don’t mean I’m dumb enough to answer every damn thing.”

“Then you lied.”