Page 22 of Luck of the Devil (Harper Adams Mystery #3)

When I walked through the back door, Malcolm was setting two plates with eggs, bacon, and buttered toast on the breakfast table.

“Any luck?”

I walked around him and sat down at the table, then picked up my coffee cup, which I noticed had been refilled. “More than I expected.”

“Oh?” he asked as he took a seat.

“I talked to three neighbors. Two didn’t know anything, but one saw my mother leave on Tuesday afternoon with her suitcase sometime between two and three.”

His brow lifted. “So, she didn’t leave right after her call to the burner phone.”

“No, but I’m burying the lede. I might have a clue about who she called.

” I took a sip of my coffee, then lowered the cup.

“The neighbor said a black sedan dropped off a woman who was anywhere from her thirties to her sixties in front of the house. My mom opened the door before the woman knocked and let her in, then the car drove away. A few minutes later, Mom and the woman came out of the back of the house and got into Mom’s car and left. My mom had her suitcase with her.”

“Any idea who the woman was?”

I shook my head. “I don’t have a clue. Mrs. Comstock said she had salt and pepper hair that was more salt than pepper. She was wearing dark jeans, black knee-high boots, a gray winter coat, and a black T-shirt.”

“Could it be one of her friends?”

“Maybe,” I said, “but she didn’t recognize her, and she made a suggestion that caught me off guard.”

His face remained passive, waiting.

“She suggested the woman could have been my father’s mistress.”

His brow lifted. “Was he having an affair?”

“I never saw any sign of it, but that doesn’t mean anything.

Especially after he moved out. Mrs. Comstock didn’t know if he was unfaithful.

She claimed to be guessing. And then she said she wouldn’t have been surprised if my mother had invited her over to murder her.

Or if the mistress was the person who ran her off the bridge. ”

He looked momentarily stunned. “She thinks your mother was murdered?”

“Honestly, I don’t think so. She didn’t contact the police or the sheriff’s department about any of it. I think she was just speculating for entertainment.”

“Gossiping,” he said dryly, then cut into one of his fried eggs and took a bite.

I picked up a piece of bacon, my stomach giving me mixed signals about what it wanted. “Same thing.” I took a bite, hoping it would make me feel better, not worse.

“Do you think your mother was capable of murdering your father’s mistress, if he even had one?”

“No,” I said. “Maybe another time, but not last week. She was too broken. I’ve seen my mother vindictive more times than I can count, so believe me when I say she wasn’t plotting anyone’s demise, literal or figurative, over the last few weeks.”

He nodded, accepting my answer as he cut off another piece of his eggs. “We obviously need to find out who this woman was.”

“Thankfully, we might have help with that. I noticed her doorbell didn’t have a recording device, so I was shocked when she told me she has a camera in her upstairs window. She said she’d get footage of the woman and send it to me.”

He sat back in his chair. “I wonder what else she has on there.”

I took another bite of bacon. “What do you mean?”

“What if Skip Martin’s guys weren’t the only people to show up at your mother’s house looking for something?”

“Martin’s guys were looking for the information I had on Hugo Burton’s case. It didn’t have anything to do with my mother.”

“Maybe, maybe not, but I’m still not convinced they weren’t looking for you .”

I released a sigh. He wasn’t wrong. Skip Martin had planned to kill me. There was every likelihood his goons would have kidnapped me that night if Malcolm hadn’t shown up.

“But what if your mother was tied up in the Hugo Burton mess somehow? We have no guarantee your father told you everything. There’s no denying he was involved with Hugo Burton.”

I considered his suggestion. “Dad drew up Burton’s contracts off company time, and while it wasn’t technically illegal, it was unethical.”

“I’m not talking about Hugo Burton.”

“Simmons? He contacted my father to work on some contracts after Dad got mixed up with Burton.”

“Are you sure?”

I started to say yes, then stopped. I was repeating what my father had told me, but I’d be stupid to take his word for it.

I was letting my personal bias affect my instincts again. There was a reason cops weren’t involved in investigations dealing with themselves or family or close friends. They weren’t neutral. They came in with preconceived ideas and opinions. Good investigations didn’t start that way.

“I think I’m making a mistake,” I said, barely above a whisper.

He set down his toast and placed both hands on the table. “What are you talking about, Harper?”

“I shouldn’t be investigating this. I’m too close. I’m ignoring things I shouldn’t.” I reached for my coffee cup, then put my hand down, too anxious to take a sip.

He leaned closer, his face softening. “Do you or do you not want to be part of finding out who killed your mother?” When I hesitated, he said, “There’s no shame if you decide it’s too much. I had no right to back you into this.”

“You didn’t,” I countered, but he cocked an eyebrow. “Okay, you strongly coerced me, but I readily jumped on board.”

His question was fair. Did I want to find her murderer myself or would I be content letting someone else do it?

The sheriff’s department clearly wasn’t interested in an investigation, but I suspected Malcolm would dig into it with or without me.

The answer was easy. “I want to investigate. I needed you to push me. I was drowning.”

The corner of his mouth tipped up slightly. “Bad pun.”

I grimaced, then couldn’t stop myself from laughing.

“True, but not intended.” I took a deep breath.

“I want to investigate, but I’m gonna be brutally honest, Malcolm.

I’m not sure I’m going to do this investigation justice.

Hell, the things I’ve missed or overlooked within the last couple of hours are proof enough.

” I glanced down at the table, ashamed to look him in the eye.

I realized how close our hands were on the table, our fingertips separated by mere inches.

He shocked me when he lifted his hand and covered mine. “That’s what I’m here for.”

I jerked my gaze up at him in confusion and shock.

His touch was comforting but also tugged at something deep inside of me.

The part that was desperate to be touched.

Not just by anyone—but by someone who understood me.

And after a little over one month in Malcolm’s orbit, I realized no one had ever really seen me before. Not like he did.

And that scared the hell out of me.

I pulled my hand free and picked up my toast. “Does that mean you’re going to tell me whenever I fuck up?” I asked, my voice shaky.

A grin lit up his eyes. “How is that any different than our other two investigations?”

“Asshole.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his flask and handed it to me.

He’d mistaken my quiver for my detox tremors. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he knew he’d shaken me, and he was giving me an out to hide my embarrassment.

I took a longer swig than necessary and handed it back, waiting for my muscles to relax. But while I waited, I needed to get this back on track.

“So, we have two working theories,” I said, picking up my fork and scooping up some eggs. “The first is my mother found out something about my father, and whoever killed her did it to protect their secrets. The other is that my father had a mistress and either he or she or both of them killed her.”

Malcolm sat back in his chair. “If the woman was his mistress, she’d be stupid to show up at your mother’s house in broad daylight, let alone go off with her.” He cut off another piece of eggs and took a bite.

I snorted. “Trust me, most people who commit crimes aren’t all that bright.” I shoot him a pointed look. “Present company excluded.”

He choked on his egg and started coughing.

I laughed, surprised at how genuine it felt. “Just stating the facts.”

He picked up his coffee cup and took a big swig and grimaced, presumably from the temperature.

“So,” I said, “We’ll wait for Mrs. Comstock to send the video, then I’ll ask my mother’s friends if they know who she is.”

“I’m assumin’ you don’t want to ask your father?”

“No,” I said automatically, then added, “At least, not right now. And if I show it to him, I want to do it in person. I need to see his face.”

His gaze darkened, and he gave a short nod. “We should see if any other neighbors have video. Maybe we can capture a license plate on the car.”

“That would be great,” I said, “but we don’t have time for more canvassing. It’s going to be past ten by the time we get out of town as it is.”

“I’ll have Carter get someone on it.”

I looked at him in disbelief. “Carter’s going to have someone knock on doors asking for video footage?”

“He’ll be more discreet than that,” he scoffed.

“You mean he’ll do something illegal?”

He shrugged. “He’ll do what needs to be done.”

Would his people hack into their video systems?

I picked up my fork and pushed out a sigh, more at my own lack of reaction than at his proposal. I really was turning to the dark side.

His gaze stayed on me for a couple seconds before he reached for a piece of bacon on his plate and took a bite.

I scooped up a forkful of scrambled eggs. “You expected me to protest?”

“I admit I thought I’d have to convince you.”

I didn’t answer, especially since I wasn’t sure what to say. Fake a protest or admit I was okay with it? Neither seemed like great options.