Page 14 of Luck of the Devil (Harper Adams Mystery #3)

After my call with Louise, I took a few more bites of my food, then pushed my plate aside.

I needed to get more work done. Breaking into my mom’s pharmacy account had been a bust, and it would be next to impossible to look into my father’s finances on Malcolm’s computer.

Perhaps some of his login information would be saved on my mother’s computer, but I needed to go to her house to find out.

Which left only one task on my to-do-right-now list: finding my grandparents’ address.

I knew I could probably find the address in my mother’s address book at her house. But doing nothing would feel like giving in to what was going on in my body, and sitting here twiddling my thumbs was unacceptable.

The light was too much, my eyes were photosensitive, so I turned off all the lights except for a table lamp next to the desk.

I moved to the sofa, setting the laptop on my legs.

What should have taken only a few minutes to search on the internet, took more like ten.

My vision was getting blurry as my other symptoms progressively worsened.

I was feverish, my body running hot then cold, and drenched with sweat.

The few bites of chicken I’d eaten weren’t sitting well in my stomach, and I found a trash can next to Malcolm’s desk that I kept next to me …

just in case. I felt so weak I wasn’t sure I could make it to the bathroom if I succumbed to the nausea.

It took everything in me to find the address for Gary and Shirley Langford of Jonesboro, Arkansas, and plug it into the map app on my phone. The app showed the trip would take about three hours. If we left early enough, we could potentially be back in time for Malcolm to work the evening shift.

If I felt well enough to make the trip.

I had to feel better. I refused to let my own weakness halt finding justice for my mother.

I needed rest. I’d take a nap and then wake up feeling better. Maybe I’d even feel up to going to my mother’s house after Malcolm’s shift, although it seemed like a better idea to do it tomorrow before we left for Jonesboro.

I set the open laptop on the table next to the sofa, then laid down, closing my eyes against the pounding in my skull.

Even though I felt like I was dozing, I must have been out cold, because the next thing I heard was Malcolm softly swearing next to me. I hadn’t heard him open the door.

I cracked open an eye, my head throbbing at the light. He stood on the other side of the coffee table. “Good thing your sofa is leather,” I said through my chattering teeth. “Otherwise, I’d have to pay to have it dry cleaned.”

He headed for his crystal decanter on the bar cart against the wall across from the door and picked it up. I’d had that whiskey. It was the best I’d ever tasted, and my mouth watered for another taste. “You need to take a drink, Harper,”

I wanted a drink more than I wanted my next breath, but I wasn’t giving in. I was scared I wouldn’t stop. “No.”

“Goddammit,” he muttered as he poured a finger of whiskey into a glass. He set the decanter down without replacing the stopper, then moved back over to me. He sat on the coffee table, his jaw set as he said in an icy tone, “You’ve got two choices: take a few sips or I’m taking you to the ER.”

I glared up at him, but my hair was plastered to the side of my head and my shirt was sticking to my chest, so I wasn't sure I looked as threatening as I’d hoped. “If I go to the ER, there’s a good chance my father will put me in rehab up in Little Rock.”

He rocked the crystal whiskey, holding it between his fingers. “Your choice.”

My gaze followed the swirl of the amber liquid, every nerve in my body begging me to reach for it. “If I go to rehab, then I won’t be able to investigate my mother’s murder, and we both know you want me to investigate it. That’s why I’m here, ruining your sofa.”

His face remained impassive. “You can’t investigate if you’re dead.”

“This won’t kill me.” Then my body betrayed me, and my stomach rebelled. I leaned over and threw up what little I’d eaten a couple hours earlier.

Thankfully, Malcolm had quick reflexes and had the trash can in place. As I leaned over the can, I felt something lightly brush my cheeks. It took me a second to register that he had swept my hair back, holding it out of my face.

I started to glance up, wanting to see his reaction, but another wave hit me and I doubled over again, dry heaving.

When the nausea finally passed, my head felt like it was about to split in two. I collapsed on the sofa, but closing my eyes didn’t make the room stop spinning.

I heard Malcolm cross the room, then return seconds later. His hand slipped behind my neck, and he pulled me upright as he held the small opening of a bottle up to my mouth.

“I’m not taking a drink,” I mumbled, turning my head to the side as I tried to lift a hand to bat it away, but my aim was off.

“It’s water.” He tipped the bottle higher as he chased my lips and poured some of the liquid into my parched mouth. I swallowed greedily, then he gave me a little more before lowering my head back down.

Seconds later, he was lifting my head again and slipping a pillow under my upper body.

“Why are you doing this?” I rasped.

“Because you’re right.” he said, his voice rough. “I want you to investigate your mother’s murder and the sooner we can get you over this, the sooner we can get on with it.”

“You don’t need me.” I wished the sofa would swallow me whole and end my misery. “You can get any investigator you want.”

“You have access to your grandparents that I can’t get without you.”

“I was the one who suggested it,” I countered. “It never even occurred to you.”

“And it never occurred to you until you talked to your father. As his daughter . You have a familiarity with your family that one of my guys wouldn’t have.”

He had a point, but it could be argued that I was the last person who should be investigating my own father.

“You need to take a drink,” he said, quieter.

“No. This afternoon, I swore I wouldn’t drink again.” It was a better excuse than admitting I didn’t trust myself to monitor my intake. And something told me Malcolm valued someone who gave their word.

“So, take one anyway. It’s not like you’re gonna burst into flames.”

I opened my eyes to focus on him. Irritation flickered on his face.

“You’re right,” I said. “I won’t burst into flames now. That’ll happen when I end up in hell.”

“So take a goddamn drink.” His voice was sharp.

I shook my head, instantly regretting the movement as pain shot through my skull.

I nearly told him I didn’t trust myself, then doubled down.

“I gave my word, Malcolm, and if I don’t have my word, then what do I have?

” But as I said the words, memories of the Little Rock shooting and its aftermath flooded my head, and I realized I meant it.

He remained silent, watching me.

I drew in a ragged breath. “I swore that kid in Little Rock had a gun. I swore over and over, despite the fact that they couldn’t find it.

It would have been so easy to recant my statement, and trust me they wanted me to.

They told me that I’d imagined it, and people would understand if I just admitted I’d made a mistake.

That these things happened. That accidents happened…

” My voice broke and I realized I was close to tears.

“They made it sound like shooting that boy was like spilling a glass of milk. Nothing worth crying over.”

He just watched me with those intense brown eyes.

“I didn’t accidentally shoot him,” I said, my eyes burning with unshed tears. “I only had a split second to act when I saw his gun. I acted on instinct. Just like I’d been trained to do.”

He waited.

“They told me it would all go away if I told them what they wanted. That I could keep my job, and it would all get swept under the rug. When I refused, the union attorneys told me the kid had a record, that he’d been arrested multiple times and had a history of trouble.

” My chest heaved as I remembered that meeting, the horror of it still there in my bones.

“They said the world was better off without him. That I’d done the community a favor .

” My voice caught. “They called him vermin.”

“Forget what they said,” Malcolm grunted. “The fact remains that he did have a gun. The rest is superfluous.”

“It cost me my job. I lost everything. That’s not superfluous.”

He lifted a brow. “There’s the truth, and the lie. You live the truth. They pushed the lie.”

I sighed, raw and exhausted of this conversation.

“There had to be a reason they wanted you to lie,” he continued. “Why?”

I didn’t have the energy to contemplate the why, but it wasn’t lost on me that James Malcom—above practically everyone other than Nate and Louise—believed me.

I wasn’t even sure my father believed me.

But Malcom never once doubted my side of the story.

That was the why I was most interested in at the moment, not that I was likely to get an answer if I asked.

“Where is this little talk going, Malcolm?”

“You won’t take a drink because you gave your word,” he said, gentler.

“Yes!” I snapped. “Because my word is all I have left!”

But was it? I’d proven myself trustworthy during my career in the Little Rock police force, and they’d turned on me in the milliseconds it had taken to pull the trigger. My word wasn’t worth a hill of beans.

“You still have your brain.” He lightly tapped my forehead. “You’re still alive.” He glanced down at the glass of whiskey on the coffee table, then lifted his gaze back to me. “You realize you’d likely be dead if you hadn’t shot him. He would have killed you.”

“I’m very, very aware.”

He studied me with cool detachment. “But you regret it. You wish you’d let him shoot you.”

My anger surged. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to,” he said evenly. “I could ask you why his life is worth more than yours, but we both know what you’d say.”