Page 9 of Property of Whiskey

Daddy doesn’t look toward the sound. He keeps scanning the parking lot instead. Vehicles. Shadows between them. The road beyond the lights. “I mean it.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“That answer quit working when I was twelve.”

“It never worked when you were twelve.” His gaze moves across the lot again before returning to me. The motion would probably mean nothing to most people.

But I’m a deputy. I know what it looks like when my sheriff is checking for a threat. I also know what my father looks like when he’s scared.

“What happened?”

“Nothing that concerns you. Go handle the call.”

“Daddy.”

“Deputy.”

That title slams the conversation shut harder than my Interceptor door does when he finally pushes it closed.

I start the engine, lower the window, and give him one last chance.

“Ordering me away only makes me curious.”

“I raised you. I’m aware.”

“Then try honesty sometime.”

“Try following an order.” His hand remains on the top edge of my door for one second longer than necessary before he finally lets go.

I roll up the window and pull out of the parking lot before one of us says something worth putting in a report.

Chapter Two

Twila

The Piggly Wiggly sits between a laundromat and an abandoned video store near the Paradise town line. Its red sign has been missing a G from each word for years, which means visitors are welcomed to the PIGLY WIGLY, though Paradise has never attracted enough visitors for anybody to complain.

Three people are waiting outside when I arrive. Jim Hassle, the assistant manager, is pacing beneath the buzzing entrance light. A teenage stock boy has his phone held up to film, and I think he’s one of the Adler twins. The third is a woman wearing one house slipper and gripping a frozen turkey like she’s prepared to use it. Darbee Owens.

I park near the entrance, key my shoulder mic, and say, “Unit twelve, on scene,” before stepping out into air that smells like hot asphalt, laundry detergent from next door, and somebody’s cigarette.

The assistant manager hurries toward me. “Deputy, thank God.”

“What happened?”

“Darbee accused Jima of calling her a heifer.”

The woman with the turkey shouts, “She did call me a heifer.”

A voice from inside the store shouts back, “I said you were blocking the burgers.”

“That ain’t what you said.”

I point at the bird. “Put the turkey down, Darbee.”

“It ain’t loaded.” She shifts the frozen thing higher against her chest like I’ve questioned its character.