Page 14 of Luck of the Devil

He propped his hands on his hips and turned to look out at the water, the wind blowing pieces of his dark brown hair. “Because despite your narcissistic tendencies, I highly doubt her death had anything to do with you. I’d bet money it’s tied to your father, and he’s likely the tip of the iceberg. Your mother just got caught in the fallout.”

Was he right? Malcolm wasn’t the sort to offer consoling lies. He believed in facing the cold, hard truth, just like he’d made me do on this bridge. If he’d thought it had something to do with me, he would have told me so. I had to believe he was right, which also meant he was likely correct about my father.

As much as I hated to admit it.

“Do you think my father’s next?”

He turned to face me, watching me for several seconds. “I don’t know.”

“I have to warn him.” I lifted my chin, prepared to fight him on this.

“You don’t think he’s already on alert?” he asked dryly.

“Why would he be?”

“You said your mother never went out of town or on vacation, yet she’d packed a bag and was on her way out when she was killed. Your father knew that was unusual. Right? You called him the day we found Hugo after you noticed her suitcase was missing.”

“Yeah.”

“He knows, Harper. Has he been acting more paranoid lately?”

He’d been paranoid the day I’d cornered him at his law office and demanded answers about his connection to J.R. Simmons. Had he been acting paranoid since her death? I’d been too self-absorbed to notice. I’d learned about her death a full day after my father, so I had no idea what his reaction had been. Had he been shocked or looked guilty? “I’m not sure. I was kind of too busy drowning in my own misery to notice his.”

I expected some smart-ass answer, but he simply nodded. “He’s a big boy, and he’s taking care of himself. Has he tried to take care of you?”

“I can take care of myself too.”

“But at least he knows he’s in danger. Has he warned you?” He held up a hand to stave off my imminent protest. “We both know the answer is no.”

I’d never felt more lost and alone. Everything Malcolm had said was true. My father had grown more reserved since her accident. More guarded. I’d thought he was simply upset about her death, especially since they weren’t on good terms, but what if it was because he suspected she’d run into foul play? Why hadn’t he warned me? Did he think I’d call him crazy and declare it impossible, just like I had when Malcolm presented his case? Or more likely, he’d hoped to hide his possible tie to her death. He’d tried to downplay his connection to J.R. Simmons when I’d quizzed him about it last week. But there was no denying Simmons had been dead for four years. And dead men weren’t threats.

But their successors could be.

Wasn’t that Malcolm’s true motivation? To find Simmons’s successor? He’d pretty much admitted it while we were digging up Hugo Burton’s body.

Malcolm had hinted that Simmons’s successor might be worse than the original. I knew Simmons had ordered Malcolm to murder a child who could testify against Simmons. Malcolm had refused, so Simmons had done it himself. How much worse could the new man be?

“I don’t think you should stay at your house,” Malcolm said, catching me off guard. “Not until this is said and done.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”

“I know you’re a little slow at the moment, given the fact you’re grieving and in detox, but if the person who killed your mother did this because they were afraid of what she might know, then it stands to reason they might think you have the information too and want to eliminate you.”

I hadn’t connected all the dots to get to that conclusion yet. I told myself he’d had multiple hours, possibly days to reason it out. I refused to believe my brain was sluggish because of withdrawal.

Still, I hated to admit he might be right. About any of it. “You think I should stay in my mother’s house?”

He grunted. “I don’t think you should be anywhere near that property.”

I heaved out a sigh. “While there’s a possibility I’ll inherit something from my mother’s estate, my parents weren’t divorced, which means everything will go to my father. I have some money, but I’m trying to save it, so I don’t want to stay at a motel, and I don’t feel comfortable asking Louise if I can stay with her.” Especially if I really was going to investigate my mother’s possible murder. If the Lone County Sheriff’s Department had covered it up, I could be putting my friend in danger.

“You’re gonna stay with me.”

I blinked. For a second, I thought I’d misheard him. I’d expected him to suggest a cheap motel off the highway or guilt-trip me into calling Louise. But instead, he was offering to put me up—like it was nothing. Like it was the obvious choice.

I finally got my wits about me and said, “No offense, but I’m too damn old to be sleeping on the sofa in your office. No matter how comfortable it is.”

“You’ll be comin’ to my house.”