Page 23 of Luck of the Devil (Harper Adams Mystery #3)

My mind was reeling as I took a few more bites, telling myself to focus on the investigation and not on my changing moral compass.

But everything was getting under my skin, and my symptoms felt like they were getting worse, too, a wash of nausea joining the shakiness of my hands.

I put down my fork and took a few breaths through my mouth and out my nose.

Malcolm started to reach for his flask.

I shot him a glare. “I just had a drink a few minutes ago.”

“Take another.”

It pissed me off that he was ordering me around, but I still accepted the flask and took a sip. It took everything in me to lower it, then a full two seconds before I could bring myself to hand it back.

Panic swamped my head. I was terrified I couldn’t stay sober, and the last two days had proven I had reason for concern.

I pushed my feelings down, something that was much easier when I was under the influence.

Looking back, I’d used alcohol to help numb how I felt, so how would I deal with all these feelings now?

But I couldn’t waste energy on feeling sorry for myself.

And no, this wasn’t sympathy. This was disgust and loathing.

The therapist I’d been assigned by the police department would probably have had a field day with that—if he’d actually been interested in my psyche.

Our meetings had been totally ineffectual.

A way for the department to check an item off their list, no more, no less.

Didn’t matter. I couldn’t let myself wallow right now.

I’d do what I needed to do to find my mother’s killer, then let myself implode later.

By the time Malcolm finished his plate, I’d only taken a few more bites and pushed the plate away. He carried both to the sink, rinsed them off, then put them in the dishwasher before declaring it was time to go.

It was strange seeing Malcolm domesticated like this, but he was a forty-four-year-old man, and he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who lived in filth.

It made sense he cleaned up after himself.

It just felt odd to see him do it here. In my mother’s kitchen.

And it didn’t explain why he was cleaning.

Sure, I knew he was interested in what I found out, but that didn’t explain why he’d made breakfast and cleaned up after himself.

Regardless, it was nice of him, a word I didn’t really associate with Malcolm, but there was no denying it fit. It made me want to do something nice for him, which made me uncomfortable.

I knew Malcolm liked my lattes, and it wouldn’t hurt to make one for myself to take on the road. I could make him one too.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, then headed out the back door before he could pepper me with questions.

I made my latte first and put in a thermal mug, then made his, telling myself this didn’t mean anything. There was nothing weird or wrong about doing something nice for someone. Hell, he’d been helping me with my withdrawal symptoms. Making him a damn latte seemed like the least I could do.

By the time I walked into the kitchen with the two mugs, he was wearing his jacket and pacing the kitchen with his phone pressed to his ear. His gaze shifted to me, and he said a quick, “Gotta go,” then ended the call and slid his phone into his front jeans pocket.

“I made you a drink for the road,” I said, holding it out to him. I felt awkward, although I had no idea why.

He took it from me and glanced down at the lid.

“It’s a latte.”

“I figured.”

“I made one for myself. It’s no big deal.”

He grinned at me. “I didn’t think it was.”

I gave a short nod, wishing the ground would open and swallow me whole. Unfortunately for me, there were no reported sink holes anywhere near here.

He took a sip, then lowered his cup. “You want to take anything besides your mother’s laptop and her address book with us? Maybe a notebook?”

Grateful we’d moved on, I said, “Yeah, that’s a good idea.” I headed into the dining room to look for one in my mother’s stationary supply cabinet, kicking myself for forgetting the notepad I’d started making notes on in Malcolm’s office. Not that there was much on it.

I really needed to get my shit together.

When I got back into the kitchen, Malcolm had a charging cord lying next to the laptop, along with a couple of pens and my mother’s address book.

I scooped up the laptop and address book, while Malcolm grabbed the power cord, and we headed out the back door.

Something caught my attention in my peripheral vision.

Malcolm had brought the pocket planner in and placed it on the counter.

Two glasses were on either side, holding it open while two pages stood up—presumably the March pages—air drying.

“That’s not going to tell us anything,” I grumbled as I headed out the door. “It’s a waste of time.”

“Then you can gloat and say I told you so later.”

Malcolm locked up, then we headed to the car. I knew I should give it more thought, but a sudden weariness had slammed into me, and all I could think about was reaching the car.

Once we were inside, he turned to look at me. “How are you doin’?”

“I’m fine,” I snapped as I buckled my seatbelt, only it took three attempts to make it click.

“There’s no shame in what you’re goin’ through.” His tone was unexpectedly sweet, and my gaze jerked up to his.

“You seemed to heap plenty of shame on me last week.”

He paused, resting his hand on the steering wheel, as though trying to figure out what to say.

“Stop before you say something you’ll regret,” I said through gritted teeth. I had no idea what he was about to say, but the resignation on his face looked like he was dangerously close to apologizing. I wasn’t sure I could handle it if he did.

He started the car and backed out of the driveway. “I was going to say, I need your grandparents’ address to put into my GPS.”

He was full of shit and we both knew it.

But I pulled up the address on my phone and sent it to him.

He pulled to the side of the road and programmed it into his car’s navigation system.

The map popped up on his screen, telling us it would take us three hours and fifteen minutes to reach our destination.

My hand was noticeably shaky as I set my phone down, but I suspected it wasn’t from my detox. Malcolm was unnerving me. If I didn’t trust him, I’d be highly suspicious of his niceness, and the small, desperate part of me was scared to believe it could be anything else.

“Do you need another sip?” I could hear the worry in his voice. I’d already had two sips in less than a half hour. If I was needing them more frequently, then I might be in real trouble.

“If I didn’t know better,” I said in a snotty tone, “I’d think you were trying to keep me a drunk.”

He didn’t respond, just pulled his car away from the curb and started driving down the street.

I felt like an ass. Of course he wasn’t trying to keep me drunk.

He was the only person who’d even noticed my drinking.

The only one who’d tried to convince me to stop.

He’d stayed up a good portion of the night to help me through my DTs, and we both knew it wasn’t because he needed me for this investigation.

And this was how I repaid him?

“I’m sorry,” I said, sinking back into the seat and staring out the windshield. “I know you’re not trying to keep me drunk. That was an asshole thing to say.”

“It’s not easy gettin’ sober.” He shot me a glance.

“It’s not easy stayin’ sober. Soon, you’ll take it one day at a time, but right now, you’re takin’ it one minute at a time.

Maybe even one second. Yeah, you’re gonna need shots to get through this, maybe more than you feel comfortable with, but think about how much you were drinking before.

We both know it was a lot. Your body’s addicted to it, so you’ll just have to baby yourself until it’s ready to give it up. ”

I slowly shook my head, silently berating myself for putting myself in this position.

“You sure you don’t need a drink?” he asked quietly.

“No. I know my hand was shaking, but I promise it was because of something else. See?” I held out my hand, relieved when it held still.

He shot a quick glance in my direction, then turned back to road. “You slept like shit last night and you look exhausted. The cell phone coverage sucks for the next hour, so it’s not like you can get much work done on your mother’s laptop. I’ll wake you up when the coverage is better.”

I nearly protested, but he was right. I felt like I could sleep for a week, and I knew from firsthand experience how shitty the cell phone coverage was, so I settled back in the seat.

“That was easier than expected,” he said with a chuckle.

“While I may have gone along with your orders this morning, don’t get used to it,” I said in a firm tone. “I’m not one of your employees you can just boss around.”

“I never said you were,” he said, but without the bite I’d expected. “But we both know sleep’s the best thing for you right now. It’ll help clear your head, so you’ll be ready to see your grandparents.”

I chose to ignore that it was another order and closed my eyes. As I drifted off to sleep, I tried to remember a single time my old boyfriend Keith—or any other man—had taken care of me. I couldn’t come up with a single instance. It used to make me feel independent.

Now it just made me feel sad.