Chapter Twenty-Two #3
“Last screen was messages.”
He angles the bag carefully.
The visible thread has no contact name, only a number.
The latest message reads:
KEEP DIX QUIET. DO NOT DAMAGE HER UNLESS NECESSARY.
My stomach turns. The message beneath it is worse.
THE CHILD IS LEVERAGE ONLY. NO CONTACT WITHOUT MY ORDER.
Whiskey becomes so quiet beside me I feel it before I look.
Daddy swears.
I whisper, “Wren.”
Whiskey reaches toward the bagged phone, then stops himself before touching it.
Smart man.
“Can you prove that’s Crowley?” he asks.
“Not yet,” Daddy says.
“Trace it.”
“Already happening.”
A deputy jogs over with a printout. “Judge signed the emergency digital warrant.”
Daddy takes it. “Good.”
The second phone is worse. It contains photographs.
Whiskey looks toward the road where Crowley disappeared. “Motherfucker.”
I read the messages again.
The child is leverage only.
No contact without my order.
That ain’t some random thug improvising.
That is surveillance, planning, and somebody high enough in the chain to give orders about exactly how much damage is permitted.
Control.
Me leaving my house. Me at Heck’s Kitchen. My Interceptor outside the department. Whiskey’s Harley at my place.
Then Wren’s school. The front sign. Pickup lane. A photograph of Glamaw’s car.
The silence coming off Whiskey is worse than screaming.
I step directly into his line of sight. “Look at me.”
He does.
“She’s safe.”
“Right now.”
“Yes.”
“He had her school.”
“I know.”
“Her fucking school, Twila.”
“I know.”
Daddy steps closer. “I’m putting a unit there.”
Whiskey looks at him. “No uniforms near her classroom.”
Daddy nods immediately. “Plainclothes.”
Whiskey blinks once.
Probably expected a fight.
Daddy doesn’t give him one.
Funny what threatening a seven-year-old can do for male diplomacy.
I touch Whiskey’s arm. “He didn’t get near her.”
“That we know.”
“We know she’s safe.”
His eyes come back to mine. “You scared the shit outta me.”
“You love it.” The word comes out before I think about what I’m saying.
Whiskey’s expression changes. “Yeah, I do.”
My expression changes too. “You mean?”
Daddy is standing five feet away. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Whiskey goes quiet. No joke, no grin, nothing smartass enough to hide behind. “Yeah.”
Daddy looks between us before closing his eyes. “Jesus Christ.”
I almost laugh.
Whiskey never looks away from me.
“Yeah,” he says again, quieter.
I know what he means.
He ain’t saying it.
Not yet.
Neither am I.
But it’s there between us anyway, big and ugly and terrifying and looking suspiciously permanent.
I clear my throat. “Crowley got away.”
Whiskey’s mouth finally starts to curve. “Coward.”
“You let him.”
“Was busy not murdering Pike because my deputy told me to stop.”
I narrow my eyes. “Your deputy?”
Then Daddy’s radio crackles.
Dispatch.
His face loses what little humor it had as he listens.
“What?”
He holds up one hand. “Say again.”
Static scratches from the radio before the dispatcher repeats it.
“Units checked Pearly Gates main property.”
My stomach drops.
Daddy looks at me. “Mostly empty.”
Whiskey swears.
“Mostly?”
“Furniture stripped from multiple rooms. Fresh tire tracks. Back gates open.”
“They moved them.”
Daddy nods. “If anybody was there, they’re not there now.”
The small sense of victory from five minutes ago turns hollow.
We caught Pike. Got Crowley talking on a recording. Found proof somebody has been watching us and Wren.
And while we stand here, the current Pearly Gates property in town is being stripped.
Whiskey watches Pike being loaded into the ambulance under guard. “Crowley knew we were closing in.”
“Yeah.”
Daddy looks at me. “Your recording?”
I pat my pocket. “Still got it.”
“Body cam?”
“Probably caught enough before Pike ripped it loose.”
“Good.”
For once, we have something that isn’t rumor, secondhand memory, or a trail somebody already erased.
Crowley talked about people acting to protect the ministry. He confirmed Daddy learned when to stop asking questions. He called Mercy House an ugly history without denying the connection and reacted when I mentioned the blue room.
Then Harlan Pike assaulted a deputy in the sheriff’s department parking lot while carrying Pearly Gates identification. His phones contain surveillance of me and Wren.
It ain’t everything. But it’s enough to start tearing open doors.
Whiskey takes my hand. Right there in public. In front of Daddy. In front of deputies.
I look down at our fingers, then up at him. “You realize people can see you.”
“Yep.”
“Possessive.”
“Violently.”
Despite myself, I smile.
Daddy makes a disgusted noise. “Can we deal with the felonies before whatever the hell this is?”
Whiskey grins.
Daddy looks like he regrets surviving this long.
I squeeze Whiskey’s hand before turning serious again.
“Crowley knew about the picture.”
Daddy’s humor disappears. “Yes.”
“He knew what happened to you.”
“Yes.”
“He either sent it or knows who did.”
“Yes.”
Twelve years of Daddy’s fear finally has a face attached to at least part of it.
Probably not the only face. Maybe not even the worst one. But one.
And today that face made a mistake.
Crowley came to me. Talked to me. Underestimated me.
Then a man carrying Pearly Gates identification put his hands on a deputy in the parking lot of her own sheriff’s department and got caught carrying surveillance of a seven-year-old girl.
I look at Whiskey.
There’s blood across his knuckles, but Pike is still breathing because I told him to stop.
More important, Whiskey waited two streets away until I called. Which is terrifying.
Whiskey brushes his thumb over my knuckles. “Ready?”
“For what?”
“Whatever comes next.”
I look toward the road where Crowley disappeared, then at Daddy and the sheriff’s department behind him.
My world.
Then Whiskey’s hand wraps around mine. Also apparently becoming part of my world.
Fuck.
“Yeah.”
Whiskey smiles. “That my deputy?”
I squeeze hard enough to make him wince.
“Keep pushing.”
Crowley got away, and the active Pearly Gates property is going dark. Girls are still missing, and Mercy still ain’t an answer.
But Daddy finally told me the truth. Crowley finally showed enough fear beneath that preacher smile to start making mistakes. And I think Whiskey claimed to love me.
Not a bad day for Paradise County.
Except for the blood, felonies, conspiracy, disappearing girls, and whatever the fuck my relationship status is now.
Details.