Chapter Nineteen #3
Daddy frowns. “What the hell’s that mean?”
“Means this is between you and your daughter.”
The kitchen goes quiet again.
Daddy scratches at the gray along his jaw. “You’re different than I expected.”
I pick up the photograph of sixteen-year-old me. “Do you still have the original file?”
“What’s left of it.”
“Where?”
“Not the department.”
Good answer.
“Where?”
He hesitates. “Your mama’s things.”
I blink. “What?”
“Box in the attic. Old quilt chest.”
“You hid evidence with Mama’s stuff?”
“Nobody touched her things.”
That is so sad and so smart I don’t know what the hell to do with it. “You have everything?”
“Everything I kept before the report started disappearing. Copies. Notes. Names. Phone numbers. Some property records.”
Whiskey straightens. “Property?”
Daddy’s eyes narrow. “Thought you weren’t talking.”
“Made an exception.”
I almost laugh. “What property?”
“Parcels around Pearly Gates. Couple shell nonprofits.” Daddy pauses, searching his memory. “One old residence registered as Mercy House.”
My breath catches.
Beside me, Whiskey says very quietly, “Fuck.”
Daddy looks between us. “What?”
“Mercy,” I say.
“What about it?”
“Cider remembers that name.”
Daddy’s fingers stop against his coffee cup. “And Kaylee?”
“Not directly.”
I think about Wren’s drawing. The faceless woman beside Prickle.
Mercy.
“Somebody else does.”
Whiskey gives me a warning look. Not now.
Fine.
Daddy leans forward. “Who?”
“We’re not ready to explain that.”
His eyebrows rise. “Now who’s withholding information?”
Whiskey snorts.
I glare at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Daddy studies me, then Whiskey. “You two working together now?”
I hate the way that question sounds.
Too close to couple.
Too close to true.
“We’re trying to.”
Whiskey says, “She bosses.”
I look at him. “You kidnap.”
“Formerly.”
Daddy’s face darkens.
“I could still take you in,” Daddy and I say at exactly the same time.
Whiskey looks between us. “Jesus.”
I laugh.
Can’t help it. Daddy doesn’t, but the corner of his mouth almost moves.
Then he reaches across the table and turns the photograph of teenage me facedown.
“I should’ve told you years ago.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
The apology knocks the air out of me. Daddy doesn’t apologize easily. Neither do I.
Probably hereditary.
“I’m still mad.”
“I know.”
“I understand why you did it.”
His eyes close briefly. “That don’t make it right.”
“No.”
“I won’t forgive you tonight.”
“I ain’t asking you to.”
That helps. A lot. I reach across the table and put my hand over his. His fingers close around mine immediately.
Same hand that taught me to throw a ball, shoot, drive, and fill out my first arrest report. Same man who spent twelve years terrified of losing me and made so many bad decisions because of it.
“You don’t get to lock me out anymore.”
Daddy looks at me. “I know.”
“No more clearing my access.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“No more ordering me off cases because you’re scared.”
His fingers tighten around mine. “That one’s harder.”
“Daddy.”
“I’m being honest.”
“Try harder.”
He exhales. “Fine.”
“And if you know something, you tell me.”
“Within reason.”
I squeeze his hand. “Wrong answer.”
Whiskey coughs into his fist.
Daddy glares at him. “You can leave anytime.”
Whiskey looks at me. “You ready?”
I look at Daddy. “After we get the attic box.”
“No.”
I stare.
Daddy immediately lifts both hands. “Not because I’m stopping you. Because it’s late and there’s twelve years of dust up there.”
I glance at the clock.
He’s right.
I hate that.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
I stand.
Daddy does too.
Whiskey picks up his cut, and we make it almost to the front door before Daddy calls after him.
“Weller.”
Whiskey turns. “What?”
Daddy walks closer. For one beautiful second, I think maybe they’re going to shake hands.
Absolutely not.
Daddy looks him dead in the eye. “I still don’t like you.”
Whiskey nods. “Feeling’s mutual.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
Men.
Daddy looks toward me, then back at Whiskey. “You keep her safe.”
My spine stiffens. Whiskey’s eyes come to mine. He thinks before answering.
Smart.
“When I need to.”
Daddy’s expression changes. He studies him for another moment, then nods once. “That’ll have to do.”
I step onto the porch before I start having emotions in public.
Whiskey follows.
Daddy catches my arm gently before I reach the steps.
I turn.
Then he pulls me into a hug. Hard. It catches me so completely off guard that it takes half a second before I hug him back.
For one moment, I’m sixteen again. Mama’s gone and Daddy’s all I’ve got, and neither one of us knows how we’re supposed to keep going without her.
Then I remember I’m not sixteen anymore. Maybe that’s the thing both of us finally needed to understand.
“I love you,” he says into my hair.
“I love you too.”
“You call me tomorrow.”
“I will.”
“Before noon.”
“Don’t push it.”
He lets me go.
Whiskey is waiting beside the Harley, but he isn’t watching us. He’s turned toward the road, giving me privacy without making a show of it.
I climb onto the bike behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. He starts the engine. Before we pull away, I lean closer. “You did good.”
“Again?”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
“I mean it.”
His hand briefly covers mine where it rests against his stomach. “Yeah.”
We ride away beneath the porch light while Daddy stays there watching until we turn onto the road.
Halfway back to Whiskey’s, my thoughts catch on one thing he said.
Mercy House.
Not just Mercy.
A house.
A place.
Maybe.
Or maybe something worse.
Whiskey feels me tighten behind him. At the next stop sign, he turns his head.
“You good?”
“No.”
“Want me to lie and tell you this shit’s almost over?”
“No.”
“Good. Would’ve been terrible at it.”
I press my cheek between his shoulder blades. “My daddy knew.”
“Yeah.”
“He was scared.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve never seen him that scared.”
Whiskey’s hand covers mine again. “Means he had something worth being scared for.”
Me. I know. That’s what hurts. How many girls took my place?
The Harley moves again, carrying us through the dark county roads while everything Daddy told me turns over in my head. For twelve years, he’s been trying to protect me from a threat he never had the courage to name.
Tonight he finally did.
A drugged girl. A blue room. The Reverend. Ruthanne Peck. A fake state worker. A report gutted from inside the system. Montgomery money already touching Pearly Gates twelve years ago. Mercy House.
It ain’t the whole truth.
Not even close.
But for the first time, I can see more than disconnected pieces. I can see the shape of the lie everybody’s been living around.
And this time, Daddy ain’t standing in my way.
Whiskey ain’t dragging me behind him.
He’s right there beside me.
Which might be the first damn thing about this mess that feels like we’re finally headed in the right direction.