Page 288 of Property of Whiskey

Or maybe something worse.

Whiskey feels me tighten behind him. At the next stop sign, he turns his head.

“You good?”

“No.”

“Want me to lie and tell you this shit’s almost over?”

“No.”

“Good. Would’ve been terrible at it.”

I press my cheek between his shoulder blades. “My daddy knew.”

“Yeah.”

“He was scared.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve never seen him that scared.”

Whiskey’s hand covers mine again. “Means he had something worth being scared for.”

Me. I know. That’s what hurts. How many girls took my place?

The Harley moves again, carrying us through the dark county roads while everything Daddy told me turns over in my head. For twelve years, he’s been trying to protect me from a threat he never had the courage to name.

Tonight he finally did.

A drugged girl. A blue room. The Reverend. Ruthanne Peck. A fake state worker. A report gutted from inside the system. Montgomery money already touching Pearly Gates twelve years ago. Mercy House.

It ain’t the whole truth.

Not even close.

But for the first time, I can see more than disconnected pieces. I can see the shape of the lie everybody’s been living around.

And this time, Daddy ain’t standing in my way.

Whiskey ain’t dragging me behind him.

He’s right there beside me.

Which might be the first damn thing about this mess that feels like we’re finally headed in the right direction.

Chapter Twenty

Whiskey

By nine the next morning, I’m standing in Sheriff Amos Dix’s attic holding a photograph of sixteen-year-old Twila in a wrestling singlet while her daddy watches me like he’s debating whether murder counts as property maintenance.

“Touch anything else, I’ll shoot you.”

I look over my shoulder. “You say that a lot.”

“Hasn’t stopped being true.”