Page 329 of Property of Whiskey

“Yes.”

“He either sent it or knows who did.”

“Yes.”

Twelve years of Daddy’s fear finally has a face attached to at least part of it.

Probably not the only face. Maybe not even the worst one. But one.

And today that face made a mistake.

Crowley came to me. Talked to me. Underestimated me.

Then a man carrying Pearly Gates identification put his hands on a deputy in the parking lot of her own sheriff’s department and got caught carrying surveillance of a seven-year-old girl.

I look at Whiskey.

There’s blood across his knuckles, but Pike is still breathing because I told him to stop.

More important, Whiskey waited two streets away until I called. Which is terrifying.

Whiskey brushes his thumb over my knuckles. “Ready?”

“For what?”

“Whatever comes next.”

I look toward the road where Crowley disappeared, then at Daddy and the sheriff’s department behind him.

My world.

Then Whiskey’s hand wraps around mine. Also apparently becoming part of my world.

Fuck.

“Yeah.”

Whiskey smiles. “That my deputy?”

I squeeze hard enough to make him wince.

“Keep pushing.”

Crowley got away, and the active Pearly Gates property is going dark. Girls are still missing, and Mercy still ain’t an answer.

But Daddy finally told me the truth. Crowley finally showed enough fear beneath that preacher smile to start making mistakes. And I think Whiskey claimed to love me.

Not a bad day for Paradise County.

Except for the blood, felonies, conspiracy, disappearing girls, and whatever the fuck my relationship status is now.

Details.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Whiskey

There’s a point in every man’s life when he’s supposed to realize he’s been doing something wrong. Mine comes in an old jail clubhouse while Sheriff Dix’s daughter sits across from me with a split lip, a loaded pistol, and enough attitude to start a second civil war.