Chapter Eight #2
“Better?”
“No.”
“You lie worse than I do.”
I cap the bottle.
Then I remember the name I heard upstairs.
“Who’s Wren?”
He flinches. “Why?”
“You said I could ask.”
“Should’ve put limits on that.”
“Too late.”
His jaw shifts once.
“Who is she?”
“My daughter.”
I blink. Actually blink twice.
“Your what?”
“Daughter.”
“You have a daughter?”
“Last I checked.”
I stare at him long enough that irritation starts creeping into his face.
“You keep saying it like I told you I got a tail.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Most people don’t.”
“How old?”
“Seven.”
His thumb rubs absently across the bite mark on his hand, but his whole face softens around the number before he catches it.
Seven.
I think about the conversation upstairs.
Wren’ll be in school. His mother staying with her.
“Your mom’s staying at your house with your daughter?”
“Yeah.”
“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.
“How?”
His eyes settle on mine. “She left Wren alone.”
“For how long?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. That tells me it’s bad.
“Whiskey.”
“Forty-six hours.” Specific. Not two days. Forty-six hours. He knows exactly.
My stomach drops. “What?”
I look at his face differently before I can stop myself.
“How old was she?”
“Five.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
“Where was her mother?”
“Gone.”
“Drugs?”
He gives one short nod.
“And you found her?”
“Holler called. His sister wasn’t answering.”
I know Holler. “Holler’s her brother?”
“Yeah.”
The pieces move into place. His baby mama is Holler’s sister.
“I never heard.”
“Happened in Fayette County. She moved here to try to see Wren.”
“She’s clean now?”
“Claims she is.”
“You believe her?”
“No.”
“Does Wren see her?”
“No.”
“Court order?”
His eyes narrow. “That deputy voice?”
“Maybe.”
“Yeah. Court order.”
Another thing that doesn’t fit.
Whiskey Weller. King of Anarchy. Criminal accountant. Biker. And apparently a man who walked into family court, did whatever paperwork and evaluations they demanded, and got full custody of his little girl.
I don’t like that either. “You went through the courts.”
“For Wren? Yeah.”
“You trust courts but not cops?”
“I trust paperwork when it gives me something useful.”
“That’s cynical.”
“That’s experience.”
I study him.
He studies me right back.
“My turn.”
Whiskey settles deeper into the chair, and the movement makes me realize I’ve spent the last half hour interrogating a man who has been reading me just as carefully.
I frown. “What?”
“Questions.”
“I ain’t playing twenty questions.”
“You’ve asked about fifteen.”
“I’m investigating.”
“You’re kidnapped.”
“I’m still a deputy.”
“Then investigate from the couch.”
I shift as far as the chain allows. “What do you want to know?”
“Why’re you so damn determined to prove the Kings did this?”
“I’m not.”
“Bullshit.”
Anger sparks immediately. “I’m trying to find missing women.”
“You want the case.”
“That doesn’t mean…”
“You want a real one.”
My spine straightens against the post before I can stop it.
Whiskey sees it.
“Road checks. Loose cows. Fights. People calling your daddy before they call you.”
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?”
“No.”
“You wanna prove you ain’t Sheriff Dix’s little girl wearing a badge.”
I jerk against the chain.
“Fuck you.”
“There it is.”
“You think because you watched me wrestle and flirted with me at a bar you know me?”
“Never said I know you.”
“You just told me why I’m doing my job.”
“I told you what it looks like.”
“It looks like multiple women disappeared in the past six months, and Kaylee nearly became another voluntary departure while everybody kept explaining the new cases away despite the older Pearly Gates pattern.”
“I give a shit.”
“You’re a suspect.”
“According to you.”
“According to evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“You.”
He laughs once. “Strong case.”
“I found you at Pearly Gates with Kaylee.”
“Trying to save her.”
“So you say.”
“You want me guilty because guilty makes this simple.”
That hits. I hate him for it. “You want me wrong because you wear the answer on your back.”
“Kings got secrets.”
“There.”
“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.”
Then his mouth tilts. “That’s one of the things I like about you.”
The water bottle bends beneath my fingers before I realize how hard I’m squeezing it.
The basement door closes behind him.
I stare at it.
Like.
He said like.
Of all the stupid, infuriating, criminal, kidnapping biker bullshit I’ve dealt with today, that might piss me off the most.