Page 91 of Property of Whiskey

“Never said otherwise.”

“Then why should I believe you about the girls?”

“You shouldn’t.”

I stare at him.

Again.

He keeps doing that.

Refusing to beg me to believe him, to sell me some cleaner version of himself.

It’s irritating as hell.

“What should I believe?”

“That Kaylee’s alive.”

I glance toward the basement stairs. “That she’s safe with Bullet?”

“Yeah.”

Immediate. No hesitation. No joke. I believe him. That is the first thing he says all day that I believe without needing proof.

And that scares me worse than anything else.

Whiskey checks his phone and stands.

“Where are you going?”

“To check on Kaylee.”

“Can I come?”

“No.”

“Then uncuff me.”

“No.”

“Whiskey.”

“Twila.”

I hate when he does that. Uses my name like he has some right to it.

He starts toward the stairs.

“Whiskey.”

He turns.

“If I find out you lied to me about those girls, I’ll bury you myself.”

He looks at me for a long moment.

“I know.”