Page 82 of Whiskey Kisses

Evie pushes open the iron gate, its rusty hinges squealing in protest. Brushing flecks of chipped black paint from her hands, she steps inside and looks around. I follow, closing the gate so it doesn’t look suspect from the street. I’d prefer to be as inconspicuous as possible while we’re here. Last thing I need is a trespassing citation.

The outside world always seems to fade away here. Street noises like passing cars or passersby disappear, giving way to an oddly quiet hush. “Have you ever felt like this place was haunted?” I ask as we crunch over dead leaves on our way to the carriage house.

“What?” She looks back at me, lips quirked in amusement. “No.”

I check the gardens, my gaze falling on the driveway where Randall Doyle usually parks his car. It’s empty, as is the garage.

Upstairs, in her old apartment, Evie checks every nook and crannybut there’s nothing left. Not even trash. Looks like her dad had the place completely emptied.

“Oh, well,” she says, but I can tell she’s disappointed. “It was a slim chance, anyway.”

“It was worth a try,” I agree, peeking through the window to the ground below. Remnants of Evie’s vegetable garden lie withered in the dried-out soil, weeds having taken over the once neat rows. It was so vibrant the first time I visited her here, just a few months ago.

“It’s weird that he didn’t show up today, isn’t it?” she muses, fiddling with her keys.

“Not really. He’s probably out drinking his troubles away,” I say, giving her a gentle push toward the front door. “Or gambling, trying to make his fortune back.”

“Should we check the main house?” she asks.

I frown as she locks the door. “For your dad or the manga?”

“My dad.”

“His car isn’t here … you think something’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” She smooths her hand over her hair, which is pulled back into a low, sleek bun. “Missing the meeting seems off brand for him. I can see him ignoring your calls, but not mine. Even if he is upset with me.”

“He’s selfish and irresponsible.” I follow her down the steps, past flowerpots full of brittle, brown leaves. “Seems pretty on brand to me.”

“What I mean is, he still cares about Doyle Whiskey and what happens to it. He wouldn’t pass up the chance to put his two cents in one last time, even if it was to ceremonially hand over the reins to you.”

I have my doubts, but Evie knows her father better than I do.

“I’ll be really quick,” she says, undeterred. “You can wait in the car.”

“Nah, I’m going with you.” I catch up to her, resting my hand on her lower back. I’m not sure what Evie’s looking for or what she expects to find, but if she’s bent on this, we’ll go together. “But let’s make it quick. This place gives me the creeps.”

“Tristan Kelly? Creeped out?” she mocks.

I peek up at the cameras mounted on the corners of the house, half-hidden by ivy. “Do those cameras work?”

“Not for years.” Evie follows my gaze, shaking her head. “I think he just keeps them to deter people.”

We climb the porch steps, where she fits her key into the lock of the front door. It swings open with a quiet creak into the foyer, which is dim but for the scant rays of autumn sun trickling in through the dusty windows. It’s chilly inside, the air still and stale.

I hesitate in the foyer, looking around as she ventures down the hall. A messy pile of unopened mail spills off an antique console table near the door. I join Evie in the kitchen, where takeout containers and dirty dishes litter the countertops. A newspaper lies open on the kitchen table. I remember what this house looked like in its prime, years ago when it brimmed with life. If ever there was a reason not to sacrifice your family on the altar of your ambitions, here it is.

“I never thought he’d let it get this bad,” whispers Evie, evidently thinking the same thing.

I wrinkle my nose. “It’s a fucking pigsty. Why doesn’t he have housekeeping?”

“He used to, but Tristan,” she says, turning back to me, “his entire life, his identity, revolved around the distillery. He probably sank into a depression when he lost it.”

I don’t know what she wants me to say. Every choice has a consequence, and this is one of Randall’s.

“I’ll check upstairs.” Leaving the kitchen, I head back to the staircase, unsure of what we’re looking for. Evidence of foul play? Signs he packed his bags and left town? “Which bedroom is his?”

“Second door on the left,” she calls back, her voice closer as she follows me.

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