Page 2 of Luck of the Devil (Harper Adams Mystery #3)

My father was understanding when I told him I was skipping the luncheon, and I was pretty sure I saw a flicker of relief in his eyes.

Having me here in town was fairly new and likely stressful.

Hell, he’d left my mother over it. Besides, he was tired and worn out from the grief and funeral preparations. He didn’t need to be worrying about me.

I drove back to my mother’s house, parked in her driveway, then headed for the apartment over the detached garage at the back of the property. I’d moved into the studio apartment upon my return. It had been my mother’s stipulation to my homecoming, not that I’d complained. I’d wanted my space.

Her house was sitting empty now, but I’d only slept in there one night since I’d been back, and that was only because the door to my apartment had been destroyed by gunfire.

Why was my door shot up? Long story … but I was back in my apartment two nights later, and I’d been here since, quite literally. I had barely left other than to go to the funeral home with my father—and then to my mother’s bedroom to pick out a dress for her to wear in her casket.

I trod up the wooden steps, casting a glance at my mother’s back door.

In the summer, my mother had flower beds surrounding the house that burst with color, and a few bulbs were shooting green stalks into the cool March air.

They’d bloom soon, revealing whether they’d be tulips or daffodils, and my mother would have cut them and put them in a vase on the marble top table in her living room.

This year they’d die and decay. Just like her.

Lord, I’m morbid.

I unlocked my front door and headed toward my espresso machine, pressing the button to turn it on. My fingers were itching to open the cabinet door under my sink to grab a bottle of alcohol, but I steeled my back. I could make it through a fucking day without alcohol. Or at least the rest of a day.

Sure, I hadn’t gone a day without a drink for four months, but lots of people had a drink a day—a beer to unwind after work. A glass of wine at dinner. A cocktail with friends.

The way I’d been drinking lately, though…

It was like there was a prize at the bottom of the whiskey or vodka bottle.

I’d known it was getting out of control, but I’d told myself that I would stop soon.

That I had it under control. I’d been fooling myself, of course, and the last week had proven it.

Maybe if my mind hadn’t been so muddled with alcohol, I would have realized sooner that my mother was missing. Maybe her body wouldn’t have been at the bottom of the Red River for three days.

I swore I’d never take a drink again, because if I hadn’t been drunk the past month, I might have been able to stop my mother from running off. And if she hadn’t run off, then she’d still be alive.

Wanting to remain sober and actually doing it were two very different things. But my mother had always said I had a strong will. It was time to prove her right.

Fighting the urge for a drink, I gripped my fist so tightly I felt a sharp pain. I glanced down and found red half-moons with beads of blood on my right palm.

No one had said this would be easy.

I rinsed my hands off in the sink, then grabbed a paper towel and held it with my fist while I started to make a latte. A few minutes later, I carried my steaming mug with slightly shaky hands to my small round table. I’d just taken a seat when I heard a knock at the door.

My brow lifted in surprise. Everyone in town was at the funeral luncheon. Who could be at my door? I knew Louise was worried about me, so maybe she’d taken the rest of the afternoon off to sit on my futon and watch romcoms like we’d done the last two nights.

I got up and opened the door, surprised when I saw James Malcolm standing on my front porch. He was wearing a pair of faded Levis that hung low on his hips with a black t-shirt.

I stared at him in surprise while he studied me with his usual detached stare.

“What are you doing here?” I blurted out.

“The same could be said for you,” he said. “I suspect half of Lone County is at your mother’s funeral lunch.”

I suspected he was right. “How did you know I was here?”

He gave me a look that screamed, please… Over the last month, I’d worked with him on two cases and learned he knew plenty of things about this town and its people. It wouldn’t be a stretch for him to know my whereabouts—or at least for him to know where I wasn’t.

“Okay,” I conceded. “ Why are you here?”

His glaze dipped to my right shoulder, then back up to my face. “Your stitches need to come out.”

I’d gotten injured when two men had broken into my mother’s house last Thursday.

They’d proceeded to ransack my apartment.

I’d been hiding in my mother’s house, but I’d followed them out here and tried to lock them into my apartment by tying the door handle to the porch railing.

When they’d realized they were stuck, one of them had shot at the doorknob to get free.

I’d still been on the porch and a four-inch piece of metal had lodged itself under my collar bone.

Malcolm had shown up a few minutes later and taken me to a twenty-something woman in the woods who’d called him Skeeter, a nickname tied to his hometown.

She’d had honest-to-God suture kits, and enough medical knowledge to stitch me up.

Which, of course, had raised a ton of questions, only a few of which had been answered, and poorly at that.

That was the thing about James Malcolm. He wasn’t fast and loose with information. Then again, when you used to be the crime boss over a whole county, even a small one like Fenton County, Arkansas, I supposed you had to be.

I released a dry chuckle. “Are you here to drive me to your friend in the woods? I thought she said she was done doing you favors.”

The corner of his lift lip hitched slightly. “I planned to do it myself.”

My brow shot up. I wasn’t surprised he knew how to remove stitches.

I was sure a big, tough guy like him had acquired more than his fair share of them, and he didn’t strike me as the kind of man who’d condescend to visit a doctor unless he was bleeding to death.

So, it stood to reason he knew how to remove sutures.

The real question was why he was here wanting to remove mine .

“Are you gonna let me in?” he asked dryly. “Or do you want me to do it out here?” He nodded to my shoulder. “Seems like you’re gonna have to take that off for me to get to them.”

My black dress was short sleeved with a rounded neck. It came to an inch or so above my knees and had a zipper down the back.

I considered telling him I could remove them on my own, but I’d have to do it with my left hand, and I wasn’t particularly ambidextrous. Add in my sporadically shaky hands and the task seemed impossible—and painful.

I took a step back to let him in, glancing at the back of the house to see if my mother was watching a man walk into my apartment, which was strictly against her rules. Then I remembered I could do whatever the hell I wanted. She wouldn’t ever spy on me again.

I expected a wave of grief to hit me, but all I felt was numb.

He brushed past me, and I shut the door, turning to face him. “I’ll need to change.”

He gave a sharp nod, and I walked over to the dresser and pulled out a tank top and a pair of yoga pants, then headed to my small bathroom. Only as I was about to shut the door, I realized I couldn’t reach the zipper. Louise has helped me zip up before the funeral.

Great.

I turned around and gave him a sardonic look. “I need help with my zipper.”

I expected him to throw out a barb about not being interested in undressing me, but he simply motioned for me to turn around as he took a couple of steps toward me.

I stepped out of the bathroom and turned around, raising my left hand to move my hair out the way. It had grown longer since I’d moved to Jackson Creek, but it was only an inch or two past my shoulders. Long enough to get in the way.

I still expected him to say something, but he didn’t. The only sound was the zip of the metal. When he reached the small of my back, his knuckle brushed my skin, sending a shiver up my spine.

My breath caught in my throat, but I regained my senses and hurried into the bathroom and shut the door.

Sure, I’d noticed James Malcolm was a good-looking man, and sure, I’d also noticed he was in amazing shape for a man in his early forties.

And, okay, parts of me had noticed those things as well and responded to them, but those previous instances were nothing compared to what I was feeling at the moment, and I wasn’t sure what to do with that.

I let my dress drop to the floor, then sat on the toilet to put on my yoga pants as my mind reeled.

I could not sleep with James Malcolm. Talk about bad decisions. But it was a moot point since he’d made it crystal clear he wasn’t interested in me that way.

After taking several deep breaths, I tugged the spaghetti-strap shirt over the strapless bra I’d been wearing since I’d gotten the stitches, then got to my feet.

I hesitated as I reached for the doorknob. Had Malcolm noticed my reaction? If he had, would he believe it if I said I was ticklish?

My emotions were raw, and as much as I hated to admit it, I was probably suffering from alcohol withdrawal. That had to be what this was about.

The back of my neck was sweaty again, and I briefly considered putting my hair up, but I didn’t want Malcolm to think he made me nervous.

I opened the door and stood in the opening, giving myself a moment to gauge his reaction.

Malcolm was standing next to the table, and he’d set a blue cloth out on the table with a couple of stainless-steel tools on top of it.

“You brought your own tweezers and scissors?” I asked as I moved closer and took inventory.

“You think I’m gonna use the tweezers you use to pluck your eyebrows?” he scoffed.