Page 87 of Property of Whiskey

“Because you’re here.”

“Because her daddy’s busy kidnapping deputies.”

A laugh slips out before I can stop it.

Whiskey’s face changes immediately. “Was a laugh.”

I clamp my mouth shut. “Shut up. It was not.”

“Sounded like one.”

“I coughed.”

“You cough happy.”

“I hate you.”

“Feelings are mutual.”

They are not. At least his ain’t. The way he looks at me says too much, and I have no interest in finding out what mine are saying back.

I look down at the water bottle.

“Where’s her mother?”

The humor disappears.

“Official.”

“She lives there?”

“Yeah.”

“Why isn’t Wren with her?”

“She lives with me.”

“Shared custody?”

“No.”

I look up.

Whiskey has closed down again. Not angry. Guarded.

“Why?”

“Another question.”

“You said anything.”

“I did.”

“So answer.”

He rubs his bitten hand absently. “She lost custody.”

That surprises me more than the daughter did.