Page 14 of Long Gone

“As a matter of fact, I have a few free hours. What time is convenient for you?”

“Meet me at the sheriff station at three. I’ll tell you what I can.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you then.”

I hung up and looked at my clock. I had about an hour and a half before I needed to be at the station, which was located at the edge of Wolford city limits. I didn’t have time to go to the courthouse and look up Hugo’s property records. Then again, I doubted they’d be in his name. He would have purchased them his LLC, Burton Management. I decided to head to the library and see what came up when I ran a search on Hugo’s name.

The library wasn’t crowded on a Tuesday afternoon, so I didn’t have any trouble getting access to a computer. When I typed in Hugo’s name, hundreds of hits popped up. The top searches were about his disappearance and updates to the case, including his car being located at the Little Rock airport.

I spent an hour at the library, then decided logged out of the computer. I had just enough time to run by the liquor store before I headed to the sheriff’s station. I definitely didn’t want to be late since this would be my first time meeting with a detective about a case when I wasn’t in an official position. I hated to admit that I was nervous. Detective Jones had no reason to be forthcoming with information, and we both knew it. His cooperation would depend on whether he was willing to deal with me.

Some detectives welcomed fresh eyes on an old unsolved case, while others didn’t like their work being scrutinized. The problem was that police and sheriff budgets only allowed so many detectives in the department, and if they were overwhelmed with cases, some cases were pushed aside, like it or not, especially if they’d hit dead ends.

I almost skipped the liquor store so I could show up early, but I always bought my whiskey and vodka in Wolford, and since I was already here, I might as well drop in and stock up.

Once inside, I headed to the back to get my bottles. I’d picked up my bottle of whiskey and was trying to decide between a large bottle of vodka, since I’d recently gotten paid, or a smaller one. I figured I wouldn’t be drinking as much since I wouldn’t be trapped in the file room.

I was grabbing the smaller bottle when I heard the front door ding, and an all-too-familiar voice said, “Hey, George. I’m here to pick up my special delivery.”

I cringed. Shit. Just who I didn’t want to see.

“I’ve got it in the back,” said George, the store manager. “Give me a second to grab it.”

“No problem,” James Malcolm replied good-naturedly.

George hurried past me toward the back room, and I weighed my options: hide back here until Malcolm left, or head up front and act like I wasn’t doing anything wrong.

Which I wasn’t. I was thirty-six years old. It was perfectly legal for me to buy alcohol.

Even so, I didn’t want to face Malcolm outside of his tavern. Sure, I’d seen him at least once a week since we’d found Ava Peterman, but I’d always been with Louise and Nate, and neither of us had ever mentioned our collaboration or the fact that I knew he’d killed Drew Sylvester and made it look like he’d been murdered by his brother. I’d order drinks and he’d give me jabs about my drinking, but only when other people weren’t around to hear. Even then, I tried to avoid him.

At first, I told myself it was because he was a murderer, but I knew the real reason.

It was the fact I hadn’t turned him in.

Perhaps I hadn’t told the police because, deep down, I thought those men had seen more justice than they’d ever find in a courtroom. And perhaps I’d avoided James Malcolm because if I didn’t face him, I didn’t have to come to terms with what that meant about me. I could pretend I hadn’t condoned the murder of two men.

Just like I could keep pretending I was fine. Everything was okay.

So I stayed in the back, clutching both bottles to my chest while I waited for George to return to the front with two bottles of whiskey. George rang him up, an astronomical total of over a thousand dollars—no wonder his whiskey was so smooth—and a couple of minutes later the bell on the door dinged, announcing Malcolm’s exit.

When I walked up to the counter, George gave me a curious glance.

“Took you longer than usual to make your selection, Harper,” he said as he scanned the first bottle.

I told myself it wasn’t a big deal that the liquor store owner knew me by name. Hell, he’d recognized Malcolm, too, although I had to wonder why Malcolm was buying expensive bottles of whiskey here when he could surely acquire them through the tavern.

I already had my debit card out before George gave me my total, which seemed paltry in comparison. I scooped up the bag and headed out the door, then stopped in my tracks when I saw Malcolm resting his ass against my driver’s door.

He gave me a lazy grin, and I told myself the flutters in my stomach were because I’d forgotten to eat lunch.

The sun reflected off his hair, creating more shades of brown than when he was in the tavern or out at night. He was wearing jeans and an unzipped leather jacket, exposing a solid black T-shirt underneath. He didn’t have his bag, so he must have put it in his car while he waited for me to come out.

I’d looked Malcolm up after we’d found Ava, wanting to know more about the man I’d worked with. There was surprisingly little personal information about him, but I did know he’d been born in a rural Fenton County, Arkansas town and was forty-four years old. He’d never been married and, as far as I knew, didn’t have any kids.

“You know, this is the behavior of a stalker,” I said dryly as I approached him.

“Or a friend waiting to say hello.”

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