Page 89 of Luck of the Devil

Still … his statement had sounded personal.

Did Malcolm have any secret children? It didn’t seem like any of my business. If he did, then I’d leave it up to him to tell me.

He glanced at me, and I realized I’d left him hanging.

“You’re right,” I said. “Just because he was involved with murderous people didn’t mean he would hurt us himself. Just because someone kills another person, doesn’t mean they would hurt the people they love. Especially if they thought they were killing to protect their loved ones.”

He drew in a deep breath, his shoulders drawing up. “You think your father had Ambrose killed to protect you and your sister?”

“No,” I said, running a hand over my head. “I don’t know.” My brain was sluggish, as though it had worked too much today and it was calling it quitting time.

Focus.

“I have to believe he loved us,” I said, my voice breaking slightly as the nostalgia of my childhood flooded my head. So many memories, and now I was looking at them through a new lens. “You can’t fake that kind of affection. Not for as long as he showed it. And yeah, he stopped showing me affection after Andi died, but I think that’s because he was grieving for her so hard.”

“Or distancing himself from you.”

My brow shot up.

“We don’t know what he was doin’ or thinkin’,” he said. “But what if there was something goin’ on with him when your sister was kidnapped? What if he—and your mother—suspected he was the reason your sister was taken? Sure, it turned out she was taken by a sick pervert, but what if your father pissed someone off and he thought they took his daughter as retribution? It hurt like hell, so he distanced himself from you. That way it wouldn’t hurt him as much if they took you.”

Horror rushed through my head, stealing my breath. “That…” I didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

“That’s sick. Twisted,” he said, punctuating each word. “Again, we don’t know what happened, but we do know he turned his back on you.” His gaze turned to me, a challenge on his face. “There’s no disputing that.”

He was right, so I didn’t even try.

He shifted in his seat. “Another question is why your mother sent that key to her estranged sister. Especially when you hadn’t spoken to her since you were a kid.”

“Whatever is in that safe deposit box is something she either didn’t want my father to see or was holding it as blackmail. But why would she wait until after she died to tell me she had evidence against him? Why not tell me while she was alive, when I could have tried to save her?”

“I suspect she thought she could handle it on her own,” he said. “It sounds like she was used to things going her way. She thought she could control this too.”

“Maybe,” I said, still turning it over in my head. “But maybe not. She wasn’t acting confident after he left. She was paranoid and scared.”

“What if—” He held up a hand to preemptively stop any protest. “What if she was trying to protect you?”

He was right to hold me off, because my first instinct was to tell him he was crazy. But this was why investigators didn’t work on personal cases. You were too familiar with the involved parties, prejudices and all. It made it difficult to look at things objectively.

“Okay,” I said slowly, truly considering the possibility. “For argument’s sake, let’s say she was trying to protect me. Wouldn’t hiding the information put me in more danger?”

“Not necessarily. If you thought her death was an accident, you’d never have to find out otherwise. That would have been the end of it. And it makes sense that she would have assumed it would be made to look like an accident. She knew about Dale Ambrose. Her sister told her. If she thought she was in danger, she’d presume her death would be staged too.”

“She was scared to drive alone.” I gasped as the truth slammed into me. “That’s why she wanted me to take her everywhere.”

“Which brings us back to the mystery woman. If she was scared to drive alone, maybe she called that woman to be with her.”

“My mother thought that woman would protect her?”

“Depending on who the woman was to your mother, it’s a possibility.”

“You’re right,” I said. “We have to look at all possibilities. All the angles. Let’s say my mother thought she might be murdered, so she sent the literal key to why she was murdered to her estranged sister and told her not to come to me. To let me go to her. Why would she think I’d reach out to her?”

“Maybe she didn’t,” Malcolm said. “But what if your mother was dotting her I’s—she figured you’d get suspicious, and if you did, it would be better for you to get the information from her rather than poking around in the wrong places. And she figured if you started looking into things you’d probably go to her sister and ask questions.”

I tried to wrap my head around my mother’s scheming.

“You were only in danger if you started poking. Still, there’s no arguing that if your mother wanted you to solve her murder, it seems she would have made it easier.