Page 89 of Property of Whiskey

His eyes narrow. “That deputy voice?”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah. Court order.”

Another thing that doesn’t fit.

Whiskey Weller. King of Anarchy. Criminal accountant. Biker. And apparently a man who walked into family court, did whatever paperwork and evaluations they demanded, and got full custody of his little girl.

I don’t like that either. “You went through the courts.”

“For Wren? Yeah.”

“You trust courts but not cops?”

“I trust paperwork when it gives me something useful.”

“That’s cynical.”

“That’s experience.”

I study him.

He studies me right back.

“My turn.”

Whiskey settles deeper into the chair, and the movement makes me realize I’ve spent the last half hour interrogating a man who has been reading me just as carefully.

I frown. “What?”

“Questions.”

“I ain’t playing twenty questions.”

“You’ve asked about fifteen.”

“I’m investigating.”

“You’re kidnapped.”

“I’m still a deputy.”

“Then investigate from the couch.”

I shift as far as the chain allows. “What do you want to know?”

“Why’re you so damn determined to prove the Kings did this?”

“I’m not.”

“Bullshit.”

Anger sparks immediately. “I’m trying to find missing women.”

“You want the case.”

“That doesn’t mean…”