Page 84 of Whiskey Kisses

It’s been one week since Tristan took over Doyle Whiskey, and there hasn’t been a peep from Daddy. A week and one day, actually. Under normal circumstances—if anything about the past few weeks can be called normal—I wouldn’t be too concerned. We’ve barely spoken since I married Tristan, and before that, he really only called when he wanted something.

But we communicated, at least. So, despite the way our relationship has deteriorated over the years and the sorry state it’s in now, I can’t help but worry about him. Tristan keeps saying that Daddy made his bed and now he’s lying in it, which is true, but there’s something tragic about the way his life has unfolded even if it’s all his fault.

I had an affluent childhood: private school, nice clothes, and family vacations to fancy places. Between the old money Mama brought to thetable and the Doyle legacy, things were pretty cushy. But Daddy still managed to live beyond his means, driven by a need to impress. The Doyles had an image to uphold in Savannah, a certain lifestyle, and he would not be the one to tarnish it.

I didn’t see all that when I was a kid, of course. It took adulthood, going to college, to see the truth with fresh eyes when I came home. I’d always thought Mama had left because Daddy treated her so bad, and that was a big part of it, but I realize now it was also because she was unable to cope with his recklessness and the deceitful ways that he tried to cover all the gambling and spending.

I get why he’s ended up this way. But I still pity him.

And I wish he’d just call me, or even send a text message (he won’t; he finds texting tacky for the most part) to let me know he’s okay. If he’s on a tropical island, nursing his wounds with a whiskey on the rocks, fine. If he’s in a casino somewhere, digging himself into an even deeper financial hole, fine! I just need to know because I can’t shake the slightly sick feeling that something bad has happened to him.

Evie: Hey. Have you talked to Daddy lately?

Maribelle is Daddy’s favorite.I figure if anyone knows what’s going on with him, it’d be her.

She takes her sweet time getting back to me, but I expect no less.

No.

He’s probably off sulking somewhere because his life’s work has been hijacked by a thug from Boston.

I roll my eyes, my brain conjuring up the snotty tone she’d use to say something like that. Leaving my phone on the kitchen counter, I wash my hands and start on the salad I’m putting together for dinner. Tristan’s supposed to be making Irish stew in the Instant Pot, one of the many recipes his mom emailed us so we wouldn’t starve, but he’s still glued to the mess of papers we stole from Daddy’s file cabinet.

See, that’s another reason I’m concerned. I would’ve heard from Daddy by now had he noticed that the bottom three drawers of that cabinet had been emptied. But I haven’t. Shaking my head, I plunge my hands into the bowl of cool water I’m soaking the veggies in and start to scrub.

The doorbell rings. Drying my hands, I make my way down the hallway toward the front door, where Timmy’s standing with a gun in one hand and a chocolate bar in the other as he peers through the side window.

“Who is it, Tim?” Tristan asks, emerging from the study just as I make it to the door.

“I think they’re cops,” Timmy whispers, glancing back at us with a worried frown.

My heart drops to my feet.The cops? This can’t be good.

Tristan sighs. “Well, fuck.”

Smoothing my hair into a ponytail, I push past them both and open the door. A tall, white woman in dark slacks and a blazer and an even taller Black man in similar dress stand solemnly on my porch. Timmy’s right. They do look like cops. “Miss Doyle?” the man asks.

My heart flutters in my chest, and I swallow nervously. Does this have anything to do with the distillery? Do they know somehow that Tristan’s involvement hasn’t been completely above board? “Yes, that’s me.”

The man’s eyes are warm and compassionate as he flashes a badge. “I’m Detective Carter, and this is Officer Martinez. May we come in? We have some important news regarding your father.”

I freeze, momentarily caught off guard. Is this why he hasn’t been answering our calls?Daddy, what have you done?“Of course.” Nodding, I step aside to let them in. Timmy’s disappeared, but Tristan’s right beside me. “Do you want to, uh, sit down?”

Detective Martinez gives me a kind smile. “Sure, thank you.”

We lead the detectives to the sitting room, where they sit rigidly on the edge of the couch as Tristan and I take the loveseat across from them. Poppy wanders in, brushing against my legs.

“This is my husband, Tristan, by the way,” I blurt, unsure of the proper protocol.

Martinez dips her chin politely, glancing at Carter.

“Miss Doyle," Carter begins, and I just know by the gravity in his tone that this is going to be bad. “I’m sorry to inform you that we found your father earlier this morning. I’m afraid he’s passed away.”

I hear Tristan’s low curse as all of the breath in my lungs rushes out in a whoosh, and I crumple in on myself. He wraps his arm around me, leaning us back against the cushions. The detectives are quiet, allowing me a moment to try and absorb what they just told me, but I can’t wrap my mind around it. My father’s gone?

“What happened?” I manage to ask around the lump in my throat. “How—how did he die?”

“We’re still investigating, but it appears there may have been foul play involved,” Martinez says. “His body was found in an empty lot just outside the city.”

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