Page 98 of Long Gone

Crap. What the hell was wrong with me? “I don’t believe he ran off. I think something happened to him, and I plan to prove it.”

He slowly shook his head. “Nooo. I saw that look in your eyes when you were a kid. When you knew something to be true. You got that look when your mother insisted you ate a piece of Andi’s birthday cake before her party, and you swore you didn’t. Turned out it was that neighbor kid…” His voice trailed off and the panic turned to terror. “You know he was murdered. You have proof.”

Well, fuck. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to. I know you better than you think.”

I held up my hands in front of my chest and waved them. “Just forget I said anything, and leave the investigation to me. But anything you can tell me—even the most insignificant thing—could make all the difference in helping me figure out who killed Hugo Burton.”

“So you think Hugo Burton is dead,” Malcolm said, sidling up to our table from the shadows. “Fascinating.”

Great. The asshole was back.

My father stared up at Malcolm with a wary look. I could see why. Malcolm looked even more imposing than usual. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was giving me his full, undiluted attention.

I gave him a scathing look. “If you’re here to see if we need another refill on our drinks, we’re good.”

“You sure?” he asked. “You look like you need another beer.”

“Go ahead and get another one, Harper,” my dad said. “My treat.”

I ignored the fact that my father was offering to buy me beer like I was a six-year-old asking for an ice cream cone and continued to hold Malcolm’s gaze. “No. I’m good.”

“You sure?” Malcom asked his brow shooting up the slightest bit. “Maybe you want something stronger.”

“I’m pretty sure I said I’m good,” I shot back. “Maybe you should get your hearing checked, Malcolm.”

“Malcolm?” my father said, sounding wary.

Shit. Surely my father knew who owned this place, but he probably hadn’t expected to run into him, let alone have a chat with him about Hugo Burton.

“Dad, this is James Malcolm, the owner of Scooter’s Tavern. Malcolm,” I said reluctantly as I gestured to my father. “This is my father, Paul Adams.”

“Real estate lawyer extraordinaire,” Malcolm said, extending a hand to him. “So nice to meet you.”

My father stared at his hand, his eyes wide. “You’ve heard of me.”

Malcolm shrugged. “The county’s not that big. I like to stay in the know about who’s who.”

My father took his still-offered hand, awkwardly shook it, then snatched it back.

Fuck. Malcolm was ruining any chance I’d had of getting my father to talk.

“We’re good, Malcolm,” I said again with more bite. “We’ll be sure to let Kylie know if we need anything else.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, then turned and headed for the bar.

“You know him?” Dad asked with a shaky breath.

“Yeah,” I said. “I come here a lot with my friends Louise and Nate. And Malcolm’s always here. So…” I let my voice trail off and insinuate that was the extent of our interaction.

“He knew who I was.”

“Like he said, he pays attention to what’s going on in the county. You know Todd Peterman tried to shut him down. I guess he’s a little paranoid.”

“Of me?”

“No, of course not,” I assured him, lying through my teeth. “We just have a bit of a rivalry going on. He knows my history and I know his. It’s kind of a check and counter check kind of situation.”

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