Page 167 of Property of Whiskey

“The one my son kidnapped.”

Whiskey’s shoulders drop like he just realized bringing me home also meant introducing his mother to the evidence. “Mama.”

“What?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“He ain’t involved.”

I laugh harder, and Wren presses her face closer to the screen.

“Daddy kidnapped her?”

Whiskey points at his mother. “See what you did?”

Glamaw shrugs. “She’d hear eventually.”

“Not from you.”

“Then quit doing things worth talking about.”

I’m going to love this woman.

Whiskey catches whatever is on my face and immediately says, “No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did.”

Glamaw opens the screen door. “Come on in, Deputy.”

“Twila.”

“Pretty.”

“Mama.”

“What now?”

“Can we deal with the thing in the yard before you adopt my hostage?”

I fold my arms. “I ain’t your hostage.”

Glamaw looks at Whiskey. “She still here?”

“Yes.”

“Could she leave?”

Whiskey looks at me, and I look right back at him because unfortunately, yes, I could.

Glamaw smiles. “Then she ain’t a hostage anymore.”

Whiskey glances between us like he’s calculating whether abandoning both women in the yard qualifies as self-defense. “Mama, please.”

“Fine.”

Wren slips around her grandmother before either of us expects it, but Whiskey catches her before both feet hit the porch. He plants himself between her and the steps with the kind of automatic speed that says seven years of fatherhood have taught him exactly how fast determined little girls can bolt.