Page 24 of Luck of the Devil

“Not really, but that’s okay.” A sad smile on her face. “I’m glad you have James.”

My eyes flew wide. “It’s not like that with us.”

Her smile brightened. “He’s helpin’ you, ain’t he?”

“Well, yeah, but not how you think.” Not that I was about to tell her what he was doing.

“Help is help, right? And James Malcolm is one of the most loyal people I know. Once he’s your friend, the man has your back.”

I was struck speechless, unsure how to respond.

“In any case,” Misti said, seemingly unaware of my inner turmoil, “try to eat as much as you can, okay?”

I took the plate and offered her a tight smile. “Thank you.”

She pointed a finger at me as I walked toward the back. “I’ll be back to check on you later. No runnin’ off without tellin’ anyone like last time!”

A mere five days ago, I’d been working in Malcolm’s office when I’d gotten a text from Detective Matt Jones from the sheriff’s department, asking me to meet him somewhere for an important discussion. I’d thought it was related to my investigation into Hugo Burton’s disappearance. But if Pinky hadn’t run me off the road and kidnapped me before I made it to the meeting, Detective Jones would have told me that he’d pulled my mother’s body out of the river late Friday afternoon instead of Saturday.

“He drove me here, so I won’t be going anywhere.”

“Good.”

I meant it too. I was sticking to Malcolm like white on rice. He might be using me, but as long as I got my answers, I didn’t care how they were acquired.

Further proof that I was no longer Detective Harper Adams, if I’d ever been her at all.

Chapter 8

I sat at Malcolm’s desk to eat. Just thinking about how much I wanted a drink made sweat break out on the back of my neck. I needed to keep busy and stop thinking about it.

I knew I had to eat, but based on the way my stomach was churning, there was no way I could eat even a fourth of what Petey had made for me. I cut off a piece of the chicken and took a bite, groaning with satisfaction.

There was no doubt Petey’s culinary talents were wasted as a short-order cook in Malcolm’s kitchen. Scooter’s Tavern didn’t have much of a menu, which meant Petey made most of his good stuff for staff dinners. It didn't seem like Malcolm to squander talent, which made me wonder if he had some master plan in the works. Was he planning to open an upscale restaurant under a dummy LLC? I wouldn’t be surprised.

But I’d spent entirely too much time thinking about James Malcolm. I needed to get to work.

I pushed the plate aside and moved the laptop in front of me, then opened the lid and entered the simple password to wake it up.

Maybe I should find a notebook to keep track of my notes—especially since I wasn’t in top shape. I could have opened a word document on the laptop, but something about handwriting my notes had always helped sink them deeper into my head when I was working cases before. And considering the fact that my back was damp with sweat, and the ringing in my ears was back, I needed all the help I could get.

Earlier, I’d wanted to blame my shaky hands on low blood sugar, but it was time to be honest with myself.

Malcolm was right—I had a drinking problem, and there was a very strong likelihood I was suffering symptoms of withdrawal. A person couldn’t drink as much as I had the last few months then abruptly stop with no consequences.

I opened a search tab and looked up alcohol withdrawal and squirmed when I saw symptoms I’d definitely experienced over the last day or two.

Sweats, tremors, anxiety, irritability, and loss of appetite—although the last three could be attributed to grieving, I had to admit everything fit.

Great.

This meant Malcolm was probably right about something else—I couldn’t go cold turkey if wanted to spend the next few days investigating my mother’s death. I was going to have to taper off. The problem was I didn’t trust myself to take one drink and stop. I needed someone to help monitor me.

I could only imagine what Malcolm would say when he realized I needed a babysitter.

I shook my head, ignoring the fresh wave of pain that slammed into my temples. I was supposed to be finding a notebook. I’d gotten off track.

I opened a few of the desk drawers and found a clean legal pad with white paper in the middle drawer on the right side. Despite the fact I was starting to feel feverish, I pushed on and grabbed a pen with the Scooter’s Tavern logo on the side and started a list of what I needed to do.