Page 86 of Property of Whiskey

“Better?”

“No.”

“You lie worse than I do.”

I cap the bottle.

Then I remember the name I heard upstairs.

“Who’s Wren?”

He flinches. “Why?”

“You said I could ask.”

“Should’ve put limits on that.”

“Too late.”

His jaw shifts once.

“Who is she?”

“My daughter.”

I blink. Actually blink twice.

“Your what?”

“Daughter.”

“You have a daughter?”

“Last I checked.”

I stare at him long enough that irritation starts creeping into his face.

“You keep saying it like I told you I got a tail.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Most people don’t.”

“How old?”

“Seven.”

His thumb rubs absently across the bite mark on his hand, but his whole face softens around the number before he catches it.

Seven.

I think about the conversation upstairs.

Wren’ll be in school. His mother staying with her.

“Your mom’s staying at your house with your daughter?”

“Yeah.”