Page 168 of Property of Whiskey

“No.”

“But, Daddy.”

“Inside.”

“I wanna show you where he was.”

“You can show me through the window.”

“Prickle doesn’t like windows.”

“Prickle’s gonna have to adjust.”

Wren gives him a look that could’ve come directly out of my own childhood. Whiskey doesn’t budge, so she sighs like a woman burdened by incompetent employees and steps back behind the screen.

“Fine.”

He waits until she’s inside before stepping off the porch.

I follow.

Whiskey glances over his shoulder. “I’d rather you stay up there.”

“No.”

“Twila.”

“If there’s some mutant deer stalking your daughter, I’m looking.”

“It ain’t a mutant deer.”

“You sounded confident right up until the mutant part.”

“It’s a deer.”

“With an imaginary name.”

“Exactly.”

“Who supposedly knows about church people.”

His flashlight stops halfway to the ground, and the humor falls out of his face. “That part’s bothering me.”

“Me too.”

For a moment, he looks like he wants to argue. I can practically watch the old instinct line up behind his teeth, the one that says danger means he gets to decide what everybody else does.

Instead, he blows out a breath. “Fine. Stay close?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Was that a question?”

We cross the yard together.

The porch light reaches maybe twenty feet before fading into darkness. Beyond it, the tree line forms a black wall behind the house, thick Kentucky woods packed with enough trunks, brush, and deep shadow to hide damn near anything that doesn’t want to be seen. The air is warm and heavy with humidity, but cooler dampness drifts out from beneath the trees. Cicadas scream overhead, frogs answer near the ditch, and somewhere farther off a dog barks twice before going silent.

Normal country sounds.

Mostly.