Page 165 of Property of Whiskey

Whiskey’s look could strip paint. “Says it’s a deer.”

Becki frowns. “What kind of deer?”

“Called Prickle.”

Royal exhales. “That’s kinda cute.”

Whiskey ignores him. “Says it lives outside.”

I cross my arms. “Kids do that.”

He looks at me. “Wren says it watches people.”

That ain’t as cute.

Sophie’s expression tightens. “Maybe she saw a real deer.”

“Probably.”

Whiskey doesn’t sound convinced.

“What else?” Legend asks.

Whiskey looks toward the door.

“She said Prickle don’t like the church people.”

Nobody moves.

Legend looks at Whiskey.

Whiskey looks at me.

Pearly Gates was already wrong. We knew that before Kaylee ever came out of the woods bleeding.

What I didn’t have before this was a living girl saying they don’t let people leave and independently describing the same wrong hymns already buried in Cider’s memories. Add Cider reacting to that confirmation, Mercy surfacing again, and a seven-year-old’s imaginary deer somehow knowing enough to dislike church people, and this day can officially go fuck itself.

Whiskey grabs his cut. “I’m going home.”

“I’m coming.”

He stops and looks at me.

“You ain’t gotta.”

“I know.”

That changes his face. Whiskey reaches for me.

Not my wrist. My hand. His fingers close around mine.

“I’ve got backup.”

I look down at our joined hands, then up at him.

Maybe he realizes exactly what he did.

Maybe he doesn’t.