Page 64 of Property of Whiskey

“Then do it quieter.”

Bullet’s mouth twitches.

I look between them. “Where are you taking me?”

Whiskey finally answers.

“My mama’s.”

I blink.

Bullet’s eyes meet mine in the mirror for half a second before sliding away like he wants absolutely nothing to do with this conversation.

“What?”

“My mama’s house.”

That catches me so completely off guard I forget to be furious for nearly three whole seconds.

Then I recover.

“You’re taking a kidnapped deputy to your mother’s house?”

“Yep.”

“Is she in on this?”

“No.”

“Does she know you use her place to hold women against their will?”

“First time for everything.”

I stare at him.

He looks serious. That makes it worse.

“You’re out of your fucking mind.”

“Been covered.”

Bullet turns down a narrow road lined with hardwood trees and old mailboxes leaning at angles that suggest generations of lawn mower collisions. The road rises gently before curving around a stand of maples, and a minute later the van pulls into the driveway of a small brick ranch with white shutters, flower baskets hanging from the porch, and enough wind chimes to alert the entire county if a squirrel sneezes.

Three ceramic frogs sit beside the front steps.

One is wearing a tiny straw hat.

I look at Whiskey.

“This is where you murder people?”

One corner of his mouth moves. “No.”

“Because the frog decor really lowers the threat level.”

“Wait till you see the basement.”

My cuffed hands stop moving in my lap.