Me.
Then he says, “Who’s Jeremy Vale and why the hell did I get pulled away from a good bottle?”
“Amelia’s husband,” I say.
Whiskey’s gaze moves to Amelia, then drops briefly to her bare ring mark, the bruise near her sleeve, the way she sits like she may need to run even from a chair.
His face changes only a little.
Fathers notice certain things.
“Ex-husband?” he asks.
Amelia’s mouth tightens. “Not legally.”
“Unfortunate,” Whiskey says.
Derby snorts. “That your professional assessment?”
“For now.”
I point to the chair at the end of the table. Whiskey sits.
“Vale has connections,” I say. “Maybe Pearly Gates. Maybe county. Maybe Depraved Sinners. Maybe all three if tonight wants to be especially irritating.”
Whiskey looks at Amelia. “Full name?”
“Jeremy Alan Vale.”
“Age?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“Work?”
“Insurance. Officially.”
Whiskey’s brow lifts. “And unofficially?”
She hesitates.
“There it is,” he says softly. “What does he do unofficially?”
Amelia twists her fingers together. “He moves money for people. I don’t know details.”
“Cash?”
“Sometimes.”
“Church money?”
Her eyes lift fast.
Whiskey leans back. “That’s a yes.”
“I don’t know,” she says.
Sophie speaks gently. “You’re not in trouble.”