Page 172 of Property of Whiskey

“I know. Just in time to tuck you in.”

Wren looks at Whiskey, and his whole face softens. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“You promise?”

“Promise.”

She studies him long enough to make sure the answer holds, then turns her attention to me. “Is she sleeping here too?”

I choke.

Glamaw becomes deeply interested in the refrigerator.

“Wren,” Whiskey says.

“What?”

“Bed.”

“She can use the couch.”

“Thank you,” I tell her.

Whiskey looks at me. “No.”

I smile.

Wren hugs him, and he catches her up like she weighs nothing. She whispers something in his ear that sends his eyes toward me.

Suspicious.

“What’d she say?”

“Nothing.”

Wren giggles.

“Traitor.”

“I like you.”

“Good taste.”

Whiskey kisses the top of her head before handing her to Glamaw. His mother shifts Wren against one hip and looks toward the door.

“We can head back to my place.”

“You sure?” Whiskey asks immediately.

“Baby, I raised you. I can survive ten minutes on a county road.”

“What about Prickle?”

Glamaw glances toward the black windows. “I got a twelve gauge.”

Whiskey considers that, then nods.

Wren waves at me over Glamaw’s shoulder. “Bye, Miss Deputy.”