Page 120 of Long Gone

“What if she’d been home when those men broke in, Harper?” he pleaded. “Something could have happened to either one of you.”

Was he trying to protect my mother, me, or himself? I was going with the latter, and it hurt more than I’d thought it could. He’d disappointed me again, worse this time. “I don’t give up that easily, Dad. But then you wouldn’t know that since you really don’t know me at all.”

“Harper…”

Ignoring him, I walked out, trying to decide what to tell Malcolm. Did I want to admit to everything and make my father look as complicit as he’d probably been, or should I protect him? My instinct was to protect him, but did he deserve it?

Chapter 27

I needed a drink in the worst way, so I ducked into the bathroom and hid in a stall while I pulled out my water bottle. It was only a quarter full, but I took a couple of sips, chasing the heat of it, then closed my eyes as I leaned my back against the metal wall.

Had my father been more involved in Hugo’s murder than he was letting on?

And, if so, what the hell was I going to do about it?

If I’d still been a Little Rock detective, I would have gone straight to Detective Jones to report that my father had suppressed potential evidence and information. But I wasn’t Detective Harper Adams of the LRPD. I was no longer someone I recognized. Going to Detective Jones wasn’t even on my long list, and I wasn’t sure what to do with that acknowledgment either.

I needed time to sort this out without Malcolm watching my every move, but he wasn’t about to let me dodge him. And if I went to him in my current state, he’d know something had shaken me.

Basically, I was screwed.

I took another swig from my water bottle, then tucked it back in my purse while grabbing my phone. After a couple of swipes, I typed J.R. Simmons James Malcolm into the search engine.

Multiple results popped up.

Alleged Crime Boss Brings Down Successful Arkansas Businessman

J.R. Simmons Faces Murder Charges in Fenton County Dust-Up

I scanned the articles, and sure enough, Malcolm had set up a sting to bring down Simmons. It had involved a Fenton County woman and the Fenton County Sheriff’s Department.

Why would Malcolm put himself on the line by setting up a sting like that? That wasn’t the action of an organized crime boss. It sounded like a great way to paint a target on his back. It made absolutely no sense.

Another article said Simmons had escaped custody when he was being transferred from the hospital to the county jail. It hadn’t done him any good, because a few days later he’d been found dead with multiple gunshot wounds in a burned-down warehouse, along with a few other bodies. I couldn’t ignore that the situation had been pretty convenient for Malcolm, since he hadn’t needed to testify against Simmons in court after all.

It couldn’t be a coincidence that Malcolm was interested in a case that had ties to J.R. Simmons. So what was he after?

I closed out the search app and took another long swig from my water bottle. The tightly wound ball of anxiety in my gut was already beginning to unravel. After I closed the cap, I popped a breath mint in my mouth and left the bathroom, strutting past Becky and somehow finding the willpower to resist flipping her off on the way out.

Malcolm was parked on the street, but he started inching my car forward as soon as he saw me walk out the front door. When I got inside, he turned to me with a grim look. “Well?”

“Impatient much?” I snapped as I struggled to get the seat belt secured without irritating my injury.

After several fumbled attempts, he leaned over me, grabbed the seat belt, and pulled it across my body, clicking it into place. “What did he say?”

“My father created Hugo Burton’s contracts, but he did it under the table. So there’s no record of Hugo being a client of the firm.”

He pulled away from the curb. “We knew that already.”

I ignored him. “My father said it was because he wanted to invest in the property too. He created a boilerplate contract as part of their arrangement, but he didn’t see any contracts after that.”

“What else?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

“What else what?”

I still hadn’t decided whether to tell him about my father’s connection to J.R. Simmons, and I sure wasn’t about to admit I knew Malcolm had played a role in that man’s downfall. I wanted to see how long it would take for him to admit to that piece of information.

“It didn’t take you that long to learn only that. What else?”

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