Page 173 of Property of Whiskey

“Bye, Wren.”

“Prickle likes blondes.”

My smile disappears.

Whiskey turns slowly toward his daughter. “What?”

Wren shrugs like she just told us Prickle enjoys apples. “He does.”

Glamaw gets her out the door before either of us can ask what the hell that means.

I look at Whiskey.

He looks at the closed door.

Five minutes later, Glamaw’s taillights disappear down the road and the house settles into a strange quiet. It isn’t empty because Wren is still everywhere. Her crayons are on the table, shoes are by the door, and one purple hair tie sits beside the sink. Without her voice, though, the refrigerator hum and wall clock suddenly seem louder.

Whiskey locks the front door, checks the back, then passes both windows without making it obvious he’s checking them too.

I notice anyway.

“You always this paranoid?”

“Got a seven-year-old.”

“Fair.”

He looks toward me. “Hungry?”

“No.”

“Tired?”

“Yes.”

“Want a shower?”

“Yes.”

“Want my bed?”

I narrow my eyes. “For sleeping?”

His gaze travels slowly down my body. “Could be.”

I lean against the kitchen counter and finally register exactly how long I’ve been wearing the same clothes. “I need my shit.”

He frowns. “What shit?”

“My clothes. Charger. Toothbrush. Unless your grand kidnapping plan includes me wearing yesterday’s panties indefinitely.”

Whiskey’s entire expression changes.

I regret the sentence immediately, not because I’m embarrassed but because he looks delighted.

“Yesterday’s?”

“Don’t.”