Page 224 of Property of Whiskey

An apple peel lies beside a root.

I pick it up carefully between two fingers. “Whiskey.”

He comes closer. “Apple.”

“Wren’s?”

“Could be.”

Another piece lies several feet ahead, with a third beyond it. They aren’t scattered in a pile where an animal stopped to eat. They make a broken line through the leaves.

Whiskey’s humor disappears.

“Could be an animal carrying it. Something with thumbs.”

“Yeah.”

Neither one of us sounds convinced.

I move another few yards before something pale catches on a thorn bush and reflects my flashlight back at me.

I stop. “Don’t touch.” I pull a pair of nitrile gloves from my jacket pocket.

His eyebrows lift. “You just carry those?”

“Cop.”

“Sexy.”

That shuts me up longer than I’d like.

I carefully pinch the fabric loose from the thorn. It’s thin, cheap material, white or maybe cream, torn raggedly along one side. A narrow line of gold stitching runs near the edge.

Whiskey leans close enough to see without touching it. “This ain’t deer.”

“No shit.”

I rotate the fabric beneath the light and inspect both sides for anything obvious. Blood, hair, dirt inconsistent with the woods, anything trapped in the threads.

Nothing I can see.

“No blood.”

“Good.”

“Could be trash.”

“Could.”

“Could’ve been here months.”

Whiskey studies the cleaner edge. “Don’t look like it.”

I hate when he’s observant. It makes it harder to pretend he’s just a pretty criminal.

“I need a bag.”

Whiskey reaches into his pocket and produces a sandwich bag.