Page 11 of Luck of the Devil (Harper Adams Mystery #3)

That had been the drunk, sloppy version of me. What would Detective Harper Adams, the strict, by-the-book detective I’d been before last October think of what I was doing now? She would have bitterly denied that she could become someone who let a man get away with literal murder.

More than once.

I’d witnessed Malcolm kill Ava Peterman’s kidnapper.

And I knew without a shadow of a doubt that he’d also killed Ava’s kidnapper’s brother, who’d watched while my own sister was tortured years before and kept quiet about it, but I hadn’t turned Malcolm in for either crime.

Even after he’d staged their deaths to make it look like Ava’s kidnapper had committed a murder suicide.

Justice had been served, right?

Maybe the Harper before last October hadn’t been the real me. Maybe I didn’t know myself at all.

Then there was Skip Martin. I could have turned Malcolm in for killing him, and insisted, quite rightly, that he’d done it to save me. But I hadn’t. And when he’d carried me out of that cellar, then turned his gun on Skip’s crony, Pinky, I’d told him to pull the trigger.

And I hadn’t had an ounce of remorse. Not even a minuscule amount of guilt.

Both men had gotten exactly what they deserved.

I stared at Malcolm at the end of the bar. I was more like him than I cared to admit.

So, what did that make me?

But now was not the time to have an identity crisis. I needed to put all my effort into getting justice for my mother, even as a voice in the back of my head shouted that justice might be a lot different from what I’d believed it to be six months ago.

I’d deal with that later too.

I still had work to do before tomorrow, so I pushed away from the counter and headed down the length of the bar toward the door leading to the back office.

Misti called my name as I passed by, so I stopped and moved closer to the bar.

“Sorry to hear about your mom,” she said with a sad smile. “I know we don’t know each other very well, but if there’s anything I can do, let me know, okay?”

A lump filled my throat, and I forced out, “Thanks.”

She leaned her forearm on the countertop. “Petey made his world-famous chicken parmesan tonight. How about I make you a plate?”

“You don’t need to do that. I’m not very hungry.”

She cocked her head. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Um…” I’d heated up that muffin after the funeral, but I was pretty sure I’d only had a few bites.

“That says it all,” she announced in a smug tone. “You’re gettin’ some food.”

I smiled. “Okay. Note to self: Don’t cross Misti.”

A smile spread across her face. “Best advice I’ve heard all week. I’ll go grab your plate. Wait right here.”

I stood at the counter, staring at the bottles of top-shelf booze on the wall, my mouth watering at the thought of taking a sip of whiskey. My fingers tightened into a fist.

I did not need a drink. I’d be damned if I caved. I could do this, despite what James Malcolm thought.

A few seconds later, Misti came out with a plate heaped with enough food to feed two large men.

I released a short laugh. “I can’t eat all that, Misti.”

“Maybe not, but you’re gonna give it a try. There’s always plenty of work to do after someone dies, and you need your strength.”

She was right, but not in the way she thought. “Sounds like you know from personal experience,” I said softly.

She gave a quick nod. “My daddy. I had to clean out his place and handle closin’ all his accounts.” She drew a breath, tears filling her eyes. “It’s not for the faint of heart.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” I said. “I hope you had someone to help.”

“Not really, but that’s okay.” A sad smile on her face. “I’m glad you have James.”

My eyes flew wide. “It’s not like that with us.”

Her smile brightened. “He’s helpin’ you, ain’t he?”

“Well, yeah, but not how you think.” Not that I was about to tell her what he was doing.

“Help is help, right? And James Malcolm is one of the most loyal people I know. Once he’s your friend, the man has your back.”

I was struck speechless, unsure how to respond.

“In any case,” Misti said, seemingly unaware of my inner turmoil, “try to eat as much as you can, okay?”

I took the plate and offered her a tight smile. “Thank you.”

She pointed a finger at me as I walked toward the back. “I’ll be back to check on you later. No runnin’ off without tellin’ anyone like last time!”

A mere five days ago, I’d been working in Malcolm’s office when I’d gotten a text from Detective Matt Jones from the sheriff’s department, asking me to meet him somewhere for an important discussion.

I’d thought it was related to my investigation into Hugo Burton’s disappearance.

But if Pinky hadn’t run me off the road and kidnapped me before I made it to the meeting, Detective Jones would have told me that he’d pulled my mother’s body out of the river late Friday afternoon instead of Saturday.

“He drove me here, so I won’t be going anywhere.”

“Good.”

I meant it too. I was sticking to Malcolm like white on rice. He might be using me, but as long as I got my answers, I didn’t care how they were acquired.

Further proof that I was no longer Detective Harper Adams, if I’d ever been her at all.