Page 44 of Luck of the Devil (Harper Adams Mystery #3)

When I woke, it took me a few seconds to figure out why I was in a dark car, parked in front of a small, warmly lit modern cabin with cedar planks and large glass windows trimmed in black.

A full porch ran the length of the house.

The front door was on the left side of the porch, and a set of rocking chairs sat in front of the bank of windows.

Confused, I turned to see James sitting behind his steering wheel, staring at the house with a look of indecision.

“Where are we?” I asked, sitting up. Obviously somewhere he was having second thoughts about visiting.

“My house.”

My heart sunk. “You look like you’re not sold on me being here.

” He’d said we were going to stay at his house last night, but I’d gotten too sick for us to go.

It was obvious he was reconsidering. “We don’t have to stay here.

We can go to your office or a hotel.” I tried to smile, but it was weak at best. “I’ll even pay. ”

He turned and gave me a tight smile, the lights from the porch cast shadows across his face. “It’s just been a rough day.”

Guilt hit me like a freight train. “Sorry I dragged you into this.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s not what I meant. Come on.” He opened the car door and got out.

I was too tired to figure out what he meant by that, so I got out too and waited by the passenger door as he opened the trunk and pulled out my bag.

I followed him as he climbed the two steps to the porch and then punched a series of numbers into the digital keypad under his handle. There was an audible click, and he pushed the door open, motioning for me to enter.

I gave him a last look. If he still seemed hesitant, I’d insist on leaving, but the indecision had been wiped off his face. He still didn’t look happy about it, though.

“We can go somewhere else,” I offered again.

“Don’t be stupid,” he grunted. “I’ve been to your place multiple times. It’s no big deal.”

It wasn’t the same and we both knew it. James was private, even more so than I was. I couldn’t help wondering how many other people he’d invited here.

I walked inside. The décor was a mix of modern and rustic, with a stone fireplace, leather sofa, and wrought iron and glass coffee and end tables. It was open to his kitchen, a modern looking space with maple cabinets and dark stone countertops.

“Wow,” I said, “This is nice … really nice.”

He walked in behind me and shut the door. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not sure why I am,” I said. “Your office in the tavern sort of has the same feel. I had no idea something like this existed in Lone County.”

He headed into the kitchen. “It didn’t start out this way. It was a dump when Carter found it, but he got to work redoing it so it was ready when I could move in.”

My brow shot up. “You never saw it before you moved in?”

He opened a cabinet and pulled out two glasses, then headed to the fridge, casting a glance at a pill bottle on the counter. “I was a bit detained .”

Oh. “Carter bought it while you were in prison.”

He didn’t answer, instead focused on filling both glasses with ice.

I wanted to ask why he’d moved to Lone County, but I’d asked before and he hadn’t given me a straight answer. There was a better chance he’d tell me now, but I didn’t want to push. Especially since I hadn’t told him about the situation with Devereaux yet.

“So Carter was in charge of all the renovations? How did he know you’d like it?”

“He knows my taste,” he said over the clink of the ice cubes. “He showed me some plans though, and I gave my approval.”

The renovations must have taken months, all while James was in prison waiting a trial for charges that could have kept him in prison for life.

It seemed risky that he’d have Carter renovate a house he wasn’t sure he’d ever move into.

Unless he’d spent part of his time in prison working out a new deal with the Feds.

“I renovated my house in Little Rock,” I said, walking over to him as he filled one of the glasses with water. “It was a hundred-plus-year-old craftsman. I hired out a lot of the work, but I also did some of it myself.”

He looked at me as he handed me the glass he’d finished filling. “You sold it, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “My legal bills were exorbitant.”

“The police union didn’t pay for any of it?”

“In the beginning, but then I didn’t do what they wanted.

” I took a sip of water to soothe my parched mouth.

“It became apparent they weren’t going to put their best efforts into my case.

So I got my own attorney.” I’d told him this before, but it didn’t feel redundant.

The first time had been contentious. This time it felt … right.

He picked up the pill bottle, read the label, then unscrewed the cap. “This’ll help with the detox. No more tapering off alcohol. You’ll taper off these instead.” He shook two tablets into his palm and held them out to me.

I eyed them cautiously, not taking them. “What is it?”

“Lorazepam.”

My eyes flew wide. “What … where did you get those?”

He gave me a look that said, really ?

I could have pointed out that Lorazepam was a Schedule IV controlled substance—illegal to possess without a prescription. A misdemeanor for me, but a felony for him if caught distributing.

But I’d already crossed so many lines, this seemed like nothing. That wasn’t the part that stopped me.

“So, I’m trading one vice for another,” I said bitterly.

He gave me an impatient look. “If you were in rehab, you’d be doin’ the exact same thing. This way, you’re on a schedule. You’ll stop taking them in less than a week.”

He was right, and it meant no more temptation with his flask.

I held out my hand and he dropped the tablets into my palm, then went back to fridge to fill his own glass.

I popped both pills in my mouth and took a sip of water, only realizing as I swallowed that they could have been anything. I’d just taken his word for it. But the panic I expected never came. For better or worse, I trusted him.

“You’ll take them three times a day—morning, noon, and night. The dosage is on the bottle.”

“Thanks.”

He didn’t respond, just finished filling his glass, his shoulders stiff. He looked like he was about to say something, then stopped.

“Are you hungry?” he asked at last, meeting my gaze. “I don’t have much food here, but we can dig up something.”

The air between us felt charged again—just like it had outside my grandparents’ house. Even if I’d been hungry, I wouldn’t be now. My stomach buzzed with anticipation, a feeling I wasn’t used to.

He cleared his throat, his hand tightening around his glass, and deliberately looked away.

What was I doing? Had I imagined the tension or was it one-sided? Could I actually trust my insights right now?

Taking my cue that I was making him uncomfortable, I said, “I’m good,” and headed to the living room, needing to put some space between us.

I was about to sit on the sofa, but a framed photograph on the fireplace mantel caught my attention.

I walked closer, surprised to see two little girls sitting on a tree branch with their arms around each other.

There was a creek and trees behind them.

Both girls looked to be about four years old and had big smiles.

The one on the left was blond with bright blue eyes.

She had a pink bow in her hair and wore a pink shirt and black leggings with sparkles.

The other girl was brunette with shoulder-length hair.

Her dark brown eyes had an inquisitive look.

She was wearing a gray long-sleeve shirt with a Bluey graphic, and a pair of jeans.

There was something familiar about her I couldn’t place.

Why did James have a photo of two little girls on his mantel? At first, I’d thought they might be from his childhood, but the Bluey graphic definitely suggested it was more recent.

“The blond one is Jed’s little girl,” James said, his voice strained.

I turned to stare at him, feeling guilty, although I wasn’t sure why. “Does Jed send you photos?” I asked before I thought better of it. “Sorry. Of course not. You said you’re not in contact.”

“His wife sends me letters with photos from time to time,” he said, glancing out the front window.

“Oh.” I had a million more questions, but I didn’t want him to reveal anything he wasn’t ready to share.

“You’d like Neely Kate,” he said with a grin, although there was a strain of longing in his voice. “Although you too are nothin’ alike except for your penchant for callin’ out bullshit.”

“It’s a gift not everyone is blessed with,” I teased.

Chuckling, he sat down in one of the side chairs and took a sip of his water. “True enough.” He looked guarded. “I suppose you’re wondering why Neely Kate sends me letters,” he mused, finally looking at me.

I still stood by the fireplace. This photograph was important, otherwise he wouldn’t have displayed it so prominently.

I wanted to understand why, but I still didn’t want to push.

“You’re right. I’m wondering,” I said, turning back to the image.

“But I suspect Neely Kate is hoping you and Jed will change your minds about talking to one another.”

He lifted his glass in salute, then took a drink. As he lowered it, he said, “Not at first, she wasn’t. She was glad to have me out of his life.”

I walked over to the sofa and took a seat. If he was going to share part of his personal life with me, I was going to be at his level, not staring down at him. “I take it she hated him working for you.”

He paused, then inhaled sharply. As he exhaled, he said, “Especially at the end, but Neely Kate and I got along. I helped her out of a few scrapes, and she helped me with a few of mine.”

A streak of jealousy shot through me, catching me off guard. I had no right to feel jealous of a woman he’d known before our paths had crossed, but the sentiment was there, nonetheless. “Like me,” I said, trying my damnedest to sound nonchalant.