Page 23 of Luck of the Devil

More than once.

I’d witnessed Malcolm kill Ava Peterman’s kidnapper. And I knew without a shadow of a doubt that he’d also killed Ava’s kidnapper’s brother, who’d watched while my own sister was tortured years before and kept quiet about it, but I hadn’t turned Malcolm in for either crime. Even after he’d staged their deaths to make it look like Ava’s kidnapper had committed a murder suicide.

Justice had been served, right?

Maybe the Harper before last October hadn’t been the real me. Maybe I didn’t know myself at all.

Then there was Skip Martin. I could have turned Malcolm in for killing him, and insisted, quite rightly, that he’d done it to save me. But I hadn’t. And when he’d carried me out of that cellar, then turned his gun on Skip’s crony, Pinky, I’d told him to pull the trigger.

And I hadn’t had an ounce of remorse. Not even a minuscule amount of guilt.

Both men had gotten exactly what they deserved.

I stared at Malcolm at the end of the bar. I was more like him than I cared to admit.

So, what did that make me?

But now was not the time to have an identity crisis. I needed to put all my effort into getting justice for my mother, even as a voice in the back of my head shouted that justice might be a lot different from what I’d believed it to be six months ago.

I’d deal with that later too.

I still had work to do before tomorrow, so I pushed away from the counter and headed down the length of the bar toward the door leading to the back office.

Misti called my name as I passed by, so I stopped and moved closer to the bar.

“Sorry to hear about your mom,” she said with a sad smile. “I know we don’t know each other very well, but if there’s anything I can do, let me know, okay?”

A lump filled my throat, and I forced out, “Thanks.”

She leaned her forearm on the countertop. “Petey made his world-famous chicken parmesan tonight. How about I make you a plate?”

“You don’t need to do that. I’m not very hungry.”

She cocked her head. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Um…” I’d heated up that muffin after the funeral, but I was pretty sure I’d only had a few bites.

“That says it all,” she announced in a smug tone. “You’re gettin’ some food.”

I smiled. “Okay. Note to self: Don’t cross Misti.”

A smile spread across her face. “Best advice I’ve heard all week. I’ll go grab your plate. Wait right here.”

I stood at the counter, staring at the bottles of top-shelf booze on the wall, my mouth watering at the thought of taking a sip of whiskey. My fingers tightened into a fist.

I did not need a drink. I’d be damned if I caved. I could do this, despite what James Malcolm thought.

A few seconds later, Misti came out with a plate heaped with enough food to feed two large men.

I released a short laugh. “I can’t eat all that, Misti.”

“Maybe not, but you’re gonna give it a try. There’s always plenty of work to do after someone dies, and you need your strength.”

She was right, but not in the way she thought. “Sounds like you know from personal experience,” I said softly.

She gave a quick nod. “My daddy. I had to clean out his place and handle closin’ all his accounts.” She drew a breath, tears filling her eyes. “It’s not for the faint of heart.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” I said. “I hope you had someone to help.”