Page 10 of Luck of the Devil

“Oh,” I said, understanding finally sinking in. “This doesn’t have anything to do with me or my near panic attack. This has to do with what I can do for you.”

“Of course,” he said with a snide grin.

I wanted to slap it off his face, only he’d likely laugh at me and tell me violence was another symptom of detoxing.

Smug bastard.

“What do you expect me to help you with and why were you so willing to let the issue of my mother’s potential murder drop so fast?”

“There’s nothing potential about it,” he said, keeping his gaze on the road. “There’s no doubt she was murdered, and whoever did it is very good at covering their tracks, which makes me think it’s related to your father and his own illegal connections.”

Which meant—if she was murdered—that it might not have been because of me. “My father didn’t know who J.R. Simmons was when he started doing business with him and he regretted it.”

“Not enough to stop doing business with him.”

“He stopped when Simmons was killed.”

“He only stopped because the man was dead.” He shot me a glance. “And don’t you try to deny his involvement or the fact he knew he was dealing with a dangerous man. Simmons told him to let one of his stooges into Hugo Burton’s office the day after his disappearance, and he did it. He let the guy clean it out.”

“One could argue that my father was only cooperative because he knew he was dangerous,” I snapped.

“Exactly.”

I nearly countered that his statement didn’t make sense, but everything in my head was so muddled, I couldn’t be sure if it did or not. “What do you want my help with? Don’t tell me you want to help me solve my mother’s supposed murder, because I don’t know what it could possibly have to do with you.”

Only I did. He didn’t trust my father, and he’d already said he thought her possible murder was linked to him. But that still didn’t make sense. Why would he give a rat’s ass about my father other than his link to Malcolm’s deceased boss?

“All in good time,” he said good-naturedly.

“Your interest in her death has something to do with Simmons.”

“Nice to see your brain is still workin’.” He shot me a look, his brow lifted.

I ignored his insinuated despite the fact you're in withdrawal. “I’m not helping you with your vendetta against a dead man, Malcolm.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“Then what am I doing in a car with you?”

“Getting some air.”

“More like getting hot air,” I muttered under my breath, then my blood ran cold as I realized the bridge over Red River was looming in front of us.

While I knew this was where they’d found her body, I hadn’t been here yet. I hadn’t been prepared to face it.

“What are we doing here?” There was no way he didn’t hear the panic in my voice.

“Getting some air,” he repeated, but with more kindness than I was used to from him. He pulled over on the side of the bridge and turned on his hazard lights, then opened the door and got out.

I watched him through the windshield, my stomach twisting in knots. Was he playing some kind of game with me, suggesting my mother had been murdered? To what purpose?

But my stomach sunk as the truth hit me that whether she’d been truly murdered or not, I owed it to her to look at any evidence Malcolm had uncovered. And if there was something to it, then I owed it to her to find the truth and bring the perpetrators to justice.

I got out and instantly regretted not grabbing a jacket. The overcast sky kept the air chilly and there was a slight northern wind.

Malcolm was on the shoulder in front of the car, surveying the road, or more accurately, the black skid marks that still marred the concrete.

“It looks to me that she hit the brakes right here.” He pointed to the road in front of us. “And then the marks get darker as they get to the side of the bridge.” He pointed to the end of the bridge, where the bridge met the road on the other side.