Page 22 of Property of Whiskey

“And Wren’s still my kid.”

“She’s her kid too.”

“Not when the court says otherwise.”

The bunny farther down the bar drops an empty bottle into a trash can. Glass clanks loud in the silence between us as she pretends she’s not eavesdropping.

“The court also says half the shit we do is illegal,” Holler says.

“That ain’t the same.”

“No, it ain’t.” He leans closer, forearms braced against the bar. “But you can’t shut her out forever.”

“Watch me.”

“She loves you.”

That lands exactly as bad as he means it to.

I turn my head.

Holler sighs. “Hell, Whiskey, she always has. And I know deep down you still love her.”

“Love don’t make somebody safe.”

“No.”

“Love don’t make her sober.”

“No.”

“Love didn’t stop her from leaving Wren alone for two damn days.”

His mouth closes.

The memory sits between us whether either of us wants it there or not. Wren was five. The front door was unlocked, there wasn’t anything in the refrigerator a five-year-old could turn into a meal, and her mother was gone doing God knows what with God knows who.

My little girl was sitting beneath the kitchen table in a princess dress, holding an empty cereal box against her stomach. I found her because Holler called and said his sister wasn’t answering.

Two days.

Forty-six hours, according to the police report. My daughter had been alone for forty-six fucking hours.

My fingers curl around the edge of the bar until the wood bites into my palm. Better that than putting my fist through it.

Holler’s voice is quieter when he speaks again. “I know.”

“Then don’t ask me to hand Wren back because your sister swears she’s changed.”

“I ain’t asking that.”

“You’re close enough.”

“I’m asking you not to make me lie when she calls.”

“Tell her the truth.”

“What truth?”