Page 237 of Property of Whiskey

He stands beneath the dripping branches with mud streaked across his cheek and tangled into his beard, his cut filthy and his belt still crooked because ten minutes ago I was trying to get into his pants.

He drags in a breath. “This is my kid.”

The anger underneath those words stops me. “I know.”

“My fucking kid, Twila.”

“I know.”

“I don’t care about procedure. I don’t care about jurisdiction. I don’t give a shit what your daddy thinks. If somebody came onto my property because of us getting close to this Pearly Gates shit…”

“This is my case.”

“Fuck your case.”

The words hit hard enough that I stop moving.

Whiskey hears himself at the same time I do. “Shit.”

I turn away and start uphill.

“Twila.”

“That sounded pretty clear.”

He catches up but doesn’t touch me. “That ain’t what I meant.”

“What part was confusing?”

“I mean if I gotta choose between a fucking case and Wren breathing, there ain’t a choice.”

I stop. Because that I understand. Of course I do. When I turn back, he isn’t angry anymore. He’s terrified and doing a bad job hiding it.

“She’s seven,” he says more quietly. “She sleeps with a stuffed raccoon named Earl and gets mad if peas touch mashed potatoes. She ain’t part of this shit.”

“I know.”

His eyes flick toward the black woods. “And now I got some asshole walking around my property dropping a calling card.” The fear in his voice hits harder than shouting did.

I step closer. “I’m not asking you to choose the case over Wren.”

“Then what?”

“Don’t make me choose between doing my job and you.”

That shuts him up.

I hold his gaze. “I stayed with you because I wanted to.”

His attention snaps back to me.

“There. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

“Shut up. I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”