Page 76 of Luck of the Devil

What was up with Rose Gardner?

It was obvious I found her connection to the whole thing strange, as anyone would. Maybe their breakup had been amicable and he still felt protective of her, but Malcolm had said that working with him had cost Rose her relationship with Deveraux. Had Deveraux been jealous? I’d seen a few photos of Rose, and she’d looked more wholesome than a corn-fed virgin at Bible camp. There was no way Malcolm would get involved with someone like her, and even less of a chance that she’d go for him. The break-up was likely due to the fact she’d worked with Malcolm behind Deveraux’s back. It had probably cast a shadow over his integrity and left a grudge.

“Yeah,” I said, running a hand over my head as I swung my gaze toward the house. No one was staring out the window watching me, which meant my grandparents had probably found a more secure stake-out spot. We were family, after all. I suspected curiosity was embedded in our DNA. “Her name was in the internet search. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“I see.”

I was quickly learning that his I see meant a hell of a lot more than it sounded.

My head was throbbing, and my hands were beginning to shake again. I wasn’t thinking clearly when I said, “It seems odd to me that you keep mentioning Rose Gardner’s name when I only mentioned her as the tie between Malcolm and Simmons. Was there more to her involvement than that?” I regretted it the moment the words left my mouth, but there was no reeling them back in.

He was quiet for several seconds, and my heart began to race. I really didn’t want to make an enemy of this man, and I suspected I’d just driven the wrong way down a one-way street straight onto his shit list.

“Of course not,” he said with a laugh. “Rose was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“So her kidnapping didn’t have anything to with you?”

“No.”

He was lying. Of course he was probably doing it to protect her. According to Malcolm, she’d joined forces with him to help Deveraux. Sure, they’d broken up, but Deveraux probably felt like he owed it to her after she’d saved his life. Only I wasn’t sure it was that simple. I didn’t have anything to base my theory on but a hunch, but my hunches had always served me well in the past.

The question was what did this mean? Did this change anything regarding Malcolm?

“Thank you for indulging my repetitive questions, Detective,” he said, his congenial tone back. “If there’s anything I can ever do for you—anything at all—don’t hesitate to get in contact.” Then he ended the call, and I couldn’t help wondering if I’d just made a friend or a powerful enemy.

Chapter 21

I’d been outside far longer than I’d planned, and I still had to go in and not only explain why I’d run off outside, but why Malcolm had left.

Malcolm.

Shit. I had to tell him about my call with Deveraux—to warn him in case Deveraux decided to go after him. The AD’s interest had seemed more than just general curiosity. If he blamed Malcolm for his breakup with Rose Gardner, maybe he was looking for something to put him away. And I’d practically invited him to our backyard.

Fuck.

I took several deep breaths, then marched for the door, wishing I could pour a glass of my grandfather’s whiskey and down it, but I wasn’t giving into my ghosts.

When I walked into the living room, my grandparents were where I’d left them, but based on the guilty looks on their faces, they’d spied on us.

“I’m sorry I walked out so abruptly,” I said, forcing a smile. “I just needed some air.”

My grandmother frowned. “There’s no need to apologize. I was worried this all might be too much for you. But James thought looking at the photos might help you work through some of your grief over your mother’s passin’.”

My jaw dropped. “He said that?”

“Well, yes,” she said in confusion, glancing at my grandfather then back to me. “He said it might help for you to see her as a kid. He said something about people being complicated.”

Pot meet kettle. James Malcolm was one of the most complicated men I’d ever met. Had he told her that as a cover, or had he really meant it?

But I already knew the answer—I just didn’t understand it.

My eyes burned, but I swallowed the lump in my throat. Now wasn’t the time to lose it. Not again.

“Where’d he go?” my grandfather asked.

“He thought it might be better to eat here at your house, but he didn’t want you to cook, so he’s picking up dinner for us.”

My grandmother clutched her hands to her chest over her heart. “Isn’t he the sweetest?”