Page 29 of Luck of the Devil

I heard Malcolm cross the room, then return seconds later. His hand slipped behind my neck, and he pulled me upright as he held the small opening of a bottle up to my mouth.

“I’m not taking a drink,” I mumbled, turning my head to the side as I tried to lift a hand to bat it away, but my aim was off.

“It’s water.” He tipped the bottle higher as he chased my lips and poured some of the liquid into my parched mouth. I swallowed greedily, then he gave me a little more before lowering my head back down.

Seconds later, he was lifting my head again and slipping a pillow under my upper body.

“Why are you doing this?” I rasped.

“Because you’re right.” he said, his voice rough. “I want you to investigate your mother’s murder and the sooner we can get you over this, the sooner we can get on with it.”

“You don’t need me.” I wished the sofa would swallow me whole and end my misery. “You can get any investigator you want.”

“You have access to your grandparents that I can’t get without you.”

“I was the one who suggested it,” I countered. “It never even occurred to you.”

“And it never occurred to you until you talked to your father. As his daughter. You have a familiarity with your family that one of my guys wouldn’t have.”

He had a point, but it could be argued that I was the last person who should be investigating my own father.

“You need to take a drink,” he said, quieter.

“No. This afternoon, I swore I wouldn’t drink again.” It was a better excuse than admitting I didn’t trust myself to monitor my intake. And something told me Malcolm valued someone who gave their word.

“So, take one anyway. It’s not like you’re gonna burst into flames.”

I opened my eyes to focus on him. Irritation flickered on his face.

“You’re right,” I said. “I won’t burst into flames now. That’ll happen when I end up in hell.”

“So take a goddamn drink.” His voice was sharp.

I shook my head, instantly regretting the movement as pain shot through my skull. I nearly told him I didn’t trust myself, then doubled down. “I gave my word, Malcolm, and if I don’t have my word, then what do I have?” But as I said the words, memories of the Little Rock shooting and its aftermath flooded my head, and I realized I meant it.

He remained silent, watching me.

I drew in a ragged breath. “I swore that kid in Little Rock had a gun. I swore over and over, despite the fact that they couldn’t find it. It would have been so easy to recant my statement, and trust me they wanted me to. They told me that I’d imagined it, and people would understand if I just admitted I’d made a mistake. That these things happened. That accidents happened…” My voice broke and I realized I was close to tears. “They made it sound like shooting that boy was like spilling a glass of milk. Nothing worth crying over.”

He just watched me with those intense brown eyes.

“I didn’t accidentally shoot him,” I said, my eyes burning with unshed tears. “I only had a split second to act when I saw his gun. I acted on instinct. Just like I’d been trained to do.”

He waited.

“They told me it would all go away if I told them what they wanted. That I could keep my job, and it would all get swept under the rug. When I refused, the union attorneys told me the kid had a record, that he’d been arrested multiple times and had a history of trouble.” My chest heaved as I remembered that meeting, the horror of it still there in my bones. “They said the world was better off without him. That I’d done the community a favor.” My voice caught. “They called him vermin.”

“Forget what they said,” Malcolm grunted. “The fact remains that he did have a gun. The rest is superfluous.”

“It cost me my job. I lost everything. That’s not superfluous.”

He lifted a brow. “There’s the truth, and the lie. You live the truth. They pushed the lie.”

I sighed, raw and exhausted of this conversation.

“There had to be a reason they wanted you to lie,” he continued. “Why?”

I didn’t have the energy to contemplate the why, but it wasn’t lost on me that James Malcom—above practically everyone other than Nate and Louise—believed me. I wasn’t even sure my father believed me. But Malcom never once doubted my side of the story. That was the why I was most interested in at the moment, not that I was likely to get an answer if I asked.