Page 21 of Luck of the Devil

“So he blamed it on depression and claimed she killed herself because of it.”

“Pretty much. Yeah.” No need to tell him my father had partially blamed it on me.

“What about the suitcase? Why would she have bothered packing a bag if she’d planned to drive off a bridge?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t ask. I didn’t want him to realize we were suspicious.”

“Good call.” He set the mug he’d been filling on the counter and gave me a cursory glance. “How’re you doin’ after talking to him?”

I released a bitter laugh. “Not good.”

He started to reach for a shot glass, then hesitated. “You want a drink?”

“More than I want oxygen, but no.” I’d stopped shaking for the moment, so maybe the worst was over.

He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “While I applaud your decision to give up drinking, you can’t just quit. Your body is addicted to it. You need to taper off, or you’re gonna deal with some nasty side effects.” When I started to protest, he said, “All I’m sayin’ is, if you want to keep your wits about you, you might need one at some point.”

Shame filled me. “How pathetic is that?”

He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “You’re not gonna start feelin’ sorry for yourself now, are you?” But his words didn’t carry their usual bite. “Are you a whiner or a fighter, Detective?”

“All I know at the moment is that I’m gonna find out what happened to my mother.”

A glint filled his eyes. “See? You’re a fighter.”

Was I? I felt like I’d rolled over and played dead after the Little Rock Police Department had thrown me under the bus. I knew the kid I’d shot had pointed a gun at me, but sometime between the shooting and the investigation, the gun had disappeared. Someone had obviously set me up, but I hadn’t seriously considered it might be the department before Malcolm had made me question the possibility. Being a part of that department had meant everything to me, and losing my job and reputation had taken away my purpose. The only thing that had numbed the pain was alcohol. Which is how I’d gone from sipping a few glasses of whiskey at night to pouring it into my coffee first thing in the morning.

Part of me was terrified of who I was going to be once the detox ran its course. Maybe I wasn’t a fighter. Maybe I never had been. But I wanted to be one.

“You’re sure your father doesn’t suspect you think she was murdered?”

I shook my head. “I was careful. The topic of her taking antidepressants came up, but he was the one who mentioned it, not me.”

Surprise filled his eyes. “To cover the Zoloft in her bloodstream?”

“Maybe?” I raked my top teeth over my bottom lip. “I think…” I had to be Detective Adams, not my father’s daughter, even if it meant facing some hard truths.

I started again. “If my father had something to do with her death, I’m not sure she was collateral damage.” I held his gaze. “The way he suggested it was suicide and then played up her depression … it makes me think he had something to do with it.”

“And if he did?” Malcolm asked. “What will you do about it then?”

“I don’t know. But I’m not letting him get away with it.”

He gave a curt nod. “Carter called a short bit ago about reports of accidents on the bridge.” He took a beat. “There hasn’t been an accident out there in over two years.”

“But the skid marks.”

His mouth tipped into the hint of a grin. “Teens like to go out there and race. Carter says they are likely from that.”

“But the skid marks do go toward the embankment.”

“Yep, and Carter called around and got Roy from RM Towing to admit he pulled a kid’s car off the hill and didn’t report it to the cops. That was last fall.”

That helped back up our theory, but it also sobered me. My mother was murdered. But it reminded me of the other piece of information I needed to tell him.

“I have to drive to Jonesboro tomorrow.”

“What’s in Jonesboro?”