Page 47 of Luck of the Devil

“So,” I said, “We’ll wait for Mrs. Comstock to send the video, then I’ll ask my mother’s friends if they know who she is.”

“I’m assumin’ you don’t want to ask your father?”

“No,” I said automatically, then added, “At least, not right now. And if I show it to him, I want to do it in person. I need to see his face.”

His gaze darkened, and he gave a short nod. “We should see if any other neighbors have video. Maybe we can capture a license plate on the car.”

“That would be great,” I said, “but we don’t have time for more canvassing. It’s going to be past ten by the time we get out of town as it is.”

“I’ll have Carter get someone on it.”

I looked at him in disbelief. “Carter’s going to have someone knock on doors asking for video footage?”

“He’ll be more discreet than that,” he scoffed.

“You mean he’ll do something illegal?”

He shrugged. “He’ll do what needs to be done.”

Would his people hack into their video systems?

I picked up my fork and pushed out a sigh, more at my own lack of reaction than at his proposal. I really was turning to the dark side.

His gaze stayed on me for a couple seconds before he reached for a piece of bacon on his plate and took a bite.

I scooped up a forkful of scrambled eggs. “You expected me to protest?”

“I admit I thought I’d have to convince you.”

I didn’t answer, especially since I wasn’t sure what to say. Fake a protest or admit I was okay with it? Neither seemed like great options.

My mind was reeling as I took a few more bites, telling myself to focus on the investigation and not on my changing moral compass. But everything was getting under my skin, and my symptoms felt like they were getting worse, too, a wash of nausea joining the shakiness of my hands. I put down my fork and took a few breaths through my mouth and out my nose.

Malcolm started to reach for his flask.

I shot him a glare. “I just had a drink a few minutes ago.”

“Take another.”

It pissed me off that he was ordering me around, but I still accepted the flask and took a sip. It took everything in me to lower it, then a full two seconds before I could bring myself to hand it back.

Panic swamped my head. I was terrified I couldn’t stay sober, and the last two days had proven I had reason for concern. I pushed my feelings down, something that was much easier when I was under the influence. Looking back, I’d used alcohol to help numb how I felt, so how would I deal with all these feelings now?

But I couldn’t waste energy on feeling sorry for myself.

And no, this wasn’t sympathy. This was disgust and loathing. The therapist I’d been assigned by the police department would probably have had a field day with that—if he’d actually been interested in my psyche. Our meetings had been totally ineffectual. A way for the department to check an item off their list, no more, no less. Didn’t matter. I couldn’t let myself wallow right now. I’d do what I needed to do to find my mother’s killer, then let myself implode later.

By the time Malcolm finished his plate, I’d only taken a few more bites and pushed the plate away. He carried both to the sink, rinsed them off, then put them in the dishwasher before declaring it was time to go.

It was strange seeing Malcolm domesticated like this, but he was a forty-four-year-old man, and he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who lived in filth. It made sense he cleaned up after himself. It just felt odd to see him do it here. In my mother’s kitchen. And it didn’t explain why he was cleaning. Sure, I knew he was interested in what I found out, but that didn’t explain why he’d made breakfast and cleaned up after himself.

Regardless, it was nice of him, a word I didn’t really associate with Malcolm, but there was no denying it fit. It made me want to do something nice for him, which made me uncomfortable.

I knew Malcolm liked my lattes, and it wouldn’t hurt to make one for myself to take on the road. I could make him one too.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, then headed out the back door before he could pepper me with questions.

I made my latte first and put in a thermal mug, then made his, telling myself this didn’t mean anything. There was nothing weird or wrong about doing something nice for someone. Hell, he’d been helping me with my withdrawal symptoms. Making him a damn latte seemed like the least I could do.