Page 30 of Luck of the Devil

“Where is this little talk going, Malcolm?”

“You won’t take a drink because you gave your word,” he said, gentler.

“Yes!” I snapped. “Because my word is all I have left!”

But was it? I’d proven myself trustworthy during my career in the Little Rock police force, and they’d turned on me in the milliseconds it had taken to pull the trigger. My word wasn’t worth a hill of beans.

“You still have your brain.” He lightly tapped my forehead. “You’re still alive.” He glanced down at the glass of whiskey on the coffee table, then lifted his gaze back to me. “You realize you’d likely be dead if you hadn’t shot him. He would have killed you.”

“I’m very, very aware.”

He studied me with cool detachment. “But you regret it. You wish you’d let him shoot you.”

My anger surged. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to,” he said evenly. “I could ask you why his life is worth more than yours, but we both know what you’d say.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He released a sardonic laugh. “You and I, we’re more alike than you’d care to admit.”

He’d said it before, and I’d always denied it. Fought it. But now, caught in the haze of my withdrawal, I knew he was referring to the truth I’d buried down deep. That I wished I’d let that kid shoot me.

Had he wished he’d died in someone else’s place?

Either way, I was facing hard truths, so I might as well face this one. The Harper Adams on Malcolm’s office sofa was far more like the notorious crime boss than the police detective I’d been before last fall.

I was like him.

A monster.

Only when I looked up at him now, I didn’t see a monster. I wasn’t deluded enough to believe he was trying to help me for purely altruistic motives, but I didn’t believe he was completely detached either.

“You think the wrong person died last October,” he continued, his voice calm, like he was reading a bedtime story. “There’s part of you that wishes it had been you lying in that alley, not him. But your sense of self-preservation is stronger than your desire to become a martyr.”

“You’re full of shit,” I said, but it didn’t carry enough heat to sound convincing, even to my ears.

His brow lifted. “Am I?”

“What’s the point of all of this? Are you trying to drive me to drink? Wear down my defenses so I’ll cave so we can get on with the investigation?”

“And have you back in the same position you were in last week?” he asked in disgust.

“Then what do you want, Malcolm?” I asked as I closed my eyes, weary to my bones.

“I want you to face the real reason you’re drinkin’.” If he’d said it in a fit of anger, it would have lit a fire in me, but he said it with so much compassion, it nearly stole my breath.

Why did he care why I drank? All he wanted was for me to quit drinking. I wanted that too now, which meant we were on the same page.

Besides, it was so fucking obvious why I drank. I’d lost my entire world, and drinking had helped me cope, or at least I thought it had. I could see now I hadn’t really coped at all. I’d merely smothered the pain.

I knew he wasn’t going to let this go without an answer, but I wasn’t going to make it easy for him either.

“You know why,” I said through gritted teeth as a wave of pain shot through my head.

“Because you killed a kid in self-defense?” he shot back. “You and I both know it’s not that simple.”

That pissed me off, and I sat up, intensifying the pain in my head. “Okay, asshole,” I grunted, pressing the heel of my hand to my temple. “You think you’re so goddamned smart? Then tell me why I drink. Because apparently, wanting to drown the nightmare of that boy bleeding out in an alley isn’t enough.”