Page 12 of Property of Whiskey

“Negative, unit twelve.” This time the answer comes in my father’s voice.

I tighten my grip around the radio. “Sheriff, I can respond. I’m ten minutes out.”

“Negative. Remain in Paradise, Deputy Dix.”

Beside me, Lester slowly turns his coffee cup between both palms without looking up.

“The sighting is in county jurisdiction,” I say. “Was Kaylee seen alone?”

“Units are responding. Clear the air.”

“Which units?”

“Ain’t your concern.”

“I’m a county deputy. It’s exactly my concern.”

“Twila.”

The warning in his voice would stop most people, and it almost stops me.

“Was she alone, Daddy?”

“Return to the station and clear the goddamn air.”

The channel goes dead. I stare at the radio for a beat before clipping it back to my shoulder while Lester takes a very long drink of coffee.

“What do you know?”

“About what?”

“Kaylee Quill.”

“Same thing you do.”

“You looked away.”

“My neck hurts.”

“Your neck always hurts.”

“I’m old.”

Rolling my eyes, I step closer. “How many girls?”

That gets his attention. “What?”

“How many girls have disappeared?”

“A couple.”

“Bullshit. There’s been more than that in the paper.”

His gaze flicks toward the employees pretending not to listen from behind the service desk. He takes my elbow and guides me toward the doors, and I let him because I want him talking more than I want to remind him I can walk on my own.

Outside, the night feels cooler than it did in Hell. Fluorescent light spills from the storefront and washes the parking spaces an ugly white. Darbee sits in her truck with the frozen turkey buckled into the passenger seat like a dependent, while across the lot Jima stands beside the laundromat telling an audience of three exactly how oppressed she has been by local government. She sees us and points our way.

Lester waits for the automatic doors to close behind us.