Page 301 of Property of Whiskey

Royal stops joking.

I think about Kaylee’s wrists when we found her, purple and raw enough that I wanted to tear the whole damn building down with my hands.

Twila touches my arm. Not enough to restrain me. Enough to bring me back into the room.

“I know.”

I look at her.

She does.

We move on.

The second room has the same setup. The third still holds one mattress shoved against the wall, bare and stained beneath years of dust.

Twila checks beneath the bed frame. “Zip ties.”

Several have been cut. Some are brittle and yellowed with age, while others are clean enough that nobody needs to explain what that means.

Legend’s face hardens. “Bag ‘em.”

Twila does.

Royal opens the closet.

“Fuck.”

We turn.

White dresses hang shoulder to shoulder inside.

Royal whispers about old ghost stories, “Mama Crowley.”

I ignore him and study the dresses. They aren’t fancy and they sure as hell aren’t wedding dresses. They’re plain, cheap things, some closer to nightgowns and others shaped like uniforms. Every one has a narrow line of gold stitching along the edges.

Twila stops.

Her hand goes into her jacket and comes back with the evidence bag from my property. She holds the strip of white fabric beside the hem of one dress.

Same width.

Same gold pattern.

Close enough that my blood turns cold.

“That came from my fucking yard.”

Twila looks at me. “I know.”

“Near Wren.”

“I know.”

Royal has gone completely quiet.

Legend steps closer without touching either piece. “Could be the same supplier.”

Twila nods. “Could.”