Page 31 of Luck of the Devil

“The real answer’s so damn obvious, you should be embarrassed you haven’t figured it out.”

“Why the fuck do you even care?” I demanded.

He leaned forward, his eyes sharp. “Because if you’re this good of an investigator as a drunk, I can only imagine how good you’d be if your head was clear.”

I hadn’t expected that and some of my anger bled out of me. His back-handed compliment made my face flush with embarrassment.

He shook his head, pity filling his eyes. “You could take a drink right now and ease your symptoms, take the slower, steadier path to sobriety, but you won’t. Sure, you could say your refusal is because of your vow, but it goes deeper than that. You want to hurt.”

His statement hit home, ripping a layer off my carefully shielded heart.

“You think you deserve it. Your mother treated you like shit. Your father wrote you off. You told yourself you didn’t deserve love. Hell, you don’t think you even deserve to be alive.”

Tears stung my eyes.

But the look in his eyes told me I wasn’t the only one who believed that about themselves.

He held the glass toward me. “Take a drink, Harper.”

I eyed the glass in his hand, my body screaming to snatch the glass and gulp it, and yet…

I looked up at him, feeling pathetic as I whispered, “If I take that drink, who’s to say I won’t just keep drinking?”

His face hardened as his gaze held mine. “You won’t because you’re stubborn as a mule. You’re not gettin’ drunk. You’re taking a medicinal dose. Before, you drank to ease your guilt. Now you’re doing it to get sober.”

I released a bitter laugh. “That sounds like something a drunk would say to justify their next drink.”

“Good thing you’re a stubborn bitch,” he said, holding the glass out to me again. “Now drink.”

I reached for the glass, feeling the ridges of the crystal press into the pads of my fingers and thumb, and slowly brought the glass to my lips.

Relief spread through me like wildfire as the whiskey hit my tongue. Malcolm might be convinced I was drinking to ease my symptoms, but my body thought otherwise.

I guessed it would learn soon enough.

“Take another sip,” he said.

It took everything in me to not down the entire glass, but I took a small sip, letting it slide down my esophagus. Within seconds, my muscles uncoiled and my nausea eased.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “There’s no shame in admitting you have a problem. Especially now that you’ve decided to fix it.”

I released a bitter scoff. There was plenty of shame in getting to this point.

A dark grin spread across his face but didn’t reach his eyes. “It kills you that I’m the one helpin’.”

A month ago, I would have hated every minute of him seeing me like this. But now?

Like me, Malcolm was a pariah. He’d confessed that the police and the sheriff’s department harassed him. Other than Carter Hale, his attorney, I was pretty sure he didn’t have any close friends.

I wasn’t sure how I’d define our relationship, but I couldn’t deny I didn’t want my friends knowing I was with him right now. Or that he’d helped me find Ava Peterman or solve Hugo Burton’s murder. He was my dirty little secret, and he knew it. Of course he’d think I hated that he was the one helping me.

But surprisingly, he felt like the only person who understood.

“No. It feels right that it’s you.”

Surprise flashed in his eyes, before he recaptured his usual detachment. “Close your eyes and get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning, and then we’ll head to Jonesboro.”

Chapter 10