Page 53 of Luck of the Devil

He shrugged. “It’s not hard to understand why he took to it. Sure, he saw the evils of drinkin’ with our father, but you can’t live through something like our childhood and escape it unscathed.”

“Then how did you escape unscathed?” I asked, genuinely curious.

His brow lifted. “Who said I escaped unscathed?”

“So, then what’s your vice?” I asked, turning in my seat to face him. “Because you say you didn’t drink to excess, and I don’t think you’d use drugs.”

“You’re right,” he said, turning to face me. “How did you deal with your trauma?”

“You already know,” I said with a hint of incredulity. “I started drinking.”

“You didn’t start drinking until after you shot that kid last fall. I’m talking about your sister’s death. And the only reason you finally succumbed to alcohol was because you’d been through so much already it was either drink to smother your pain or you were gonna lose your fucking mind.” Then he quietly added, “Or worse.”

I started to respond, then stopped, unsure of what to say. He’d accused me of having a death wish, wishing that I’d been killed last fall instead of the boy I’d shot. I suspected he was right. But I’d never outright considered actually ending it myself.

“After your sister, you buried the pain and let is simmer.”

“What else was I supposed to do?”

He released a short laugh. “Believe it or not, I’ve learned it helps to talk about it.”

“What if you don’t have someone to talk to?” I asked in a huff. “And don’t you dare say I should talk to a therapist. I’ve been down that road with the department’s quack. He was more worried about getting through the required number of meetings than making sure I was okay.”

“You’re basing your opinion of therapy on a LRPD-assigned therapist?” he shook his head. “You need to find another.”

“Wait,” I said, sitting upright. “Are you suggesting that you’ve seen a therapist?”

“Yes,” he said with no hesitation.

It took me a second or two to process that piece of information. “When?”

He paused, then said, “Recently, and we’ll leave it at that.”

I gave one slow nod, still chewing on his admission, which I was sure hadn’t been easy. A guy like him needed to keep up appearances, and if word got out he was talking to a therapist it could make him look weak, something he couldn’t afford.

And yet he’d told me.

I couldn’t wrap my head around it.

“And you think I need to see one too,” I said in a whisper.

“It sure as hell wouldn’t hurt, but until you make that decision for yourself, you need to find someone you trust who you can talk to.”

Who was that? While I trusted Louise, I wasn’t sure I felt comfortable unloading my trauma on her. She didn’t deserve it, for one thing, and for another, that would mean opening up about Malcolm and there was no way I could do that. In my apartment, he’d suggested I could talk to him, but I’d never considered it a real possibility.

Then why was part of me yearning for that very thing?

“Okay, enough armchair psychiatrist,” I grumped, picking up my phone. “We have work to do.” I started playing the next video, which showed the night Pinky and Mike broke into my mother’s house. They knocked, then picked the lock and went inside. Similar to the video of the previous break-in, lights went on and off in the house. Then the video ended. The next video was of Malcolm showing up shortly afterward and finding me in the garage. We disappeared into the back of the house. The next video was of Malcolm leaving to get his car, then me getting inside. The last video was of him bringing me back to my mother’s house.

“Why do you think she sent these last videos of you?” I asked.

“Hard to say,” he said, staring out the windshield. “Maybe she knows who I am.”

“But you didn’t do anything wrong or illegal. And besides, she thinks you’re my boyfriend, which means you’d have a reason for coming over.”

He didn’t seem disgusted that she’d thought we were a couple, but he didn’t acknowledge it either. “Maybe this is her way of showing you she’s watching.”

“Maybe.” But I didn’t like it. “That’s the last video.”