Page 84 of Long Gone

“More self-interest. A happy employee is a productive employee.”

“What bullshit,” I said with a short laugh. “Why can’t you admit that you actually have a moral code and child molesters disgust you? That you feel a responsibility toward the people who work for you and genuinely care about them?”

His eyes frosted over, and I knew I’d gone too far. “This is your attempt to make me fit the sanitized image you need so you can accept working with me. But let me be clear—I felt absolutely no remorse for killing either of those men. And I’ve killed plenty of others without feeling anything either.” His mouth twisted, and a self-deprecating look covered his face. “Allegedly.”

“Of course,” I shot back sarcastically.

“Don’t tuck away that monster label just yet, Detective, because I think you know it’s true. What really worries you is that maybe, just maybe, you’re a monster too.”

Then he stomped out without another word, leaving me with both mugs of coffee, a slight buzz, and the fear that he was absolutely right.

Chapter 20

I thought Malcolm had left and called someone to pick him up, but when I looked out the window a few minutes later, I saw him leaning his jeans-clad ass against the hood of my car while he talked on the phone.

My mother was going to be pissed whenever she came back, because there was no way the busybody neighbor next door was missing the show playing out in the driveway.

I grabbed the vodka bottle, took two shots straight from it, and then put it back. That done, I swished my mouth out with water, then gulped the rest of my latte.

My stomach was churning with the mixture of alcohol, coffee, and self-loathing, so I threw what was left of my muffin in the trash. After I rinsed the mugs and put them and the plate in the dishwasher—fully knowing I was stalling—I changed into a pair of jeans and a light blue button-down shirt, then grabbed my coat and purse and headed out the door.

After I locked up, I headed down the steps, steeling my back for what I was about to possibly face.

“I got an address for Hugo Burton’s old office,” Malcolm said as I reached the bottom step.

“How’d you get that?” I shot back. “I was going to look it up.”

His expression made it clear he wasn’t impressed. “Did you?”

“No.” I’d been too busy trying to prove my morality and failing miserably.

“Hale found it.” He held out his hands. “Keys.”

“What the fuck?”

“You’re well on your way to being drunk.”

“Fuck off, Malcolm.”

“Please,” he drawled, his hand still outstretched. “You can barely make it through the day without being buzzed through half of it. There’s no way you didn’t finish that conversation with a whiskey chaser or two.”

Shame washed through me. Of course he would know that.

“Give me the keys. I suspect no one else knows,” he said, his voice softening some. “I lived with a drunk for sixteen years. I know all the signs. At least you don’t beat the shit out of me when you’re sauced. Now hand them over.”

That statement told me more intimate personal information about himself than he’d shared the entire time I’d known him. Who was the drunk? Probably his father. Or maybe an uncle? It could have been his mother, but that was doubtful. He hadn’t needed to tell me that, yet he had, and that, along with his gentle tone, was what made me dig my keys out of my purse. But the vodka was catching up to me so it took a couple of attempts—further confirmation he was right to take them.

But why had he shared something so personal? To soften me up? To make me more willing to work with him after all the hard things he’d just said?

“Why are you working with me?” I asked, my hand still clutched around the keys.

“Because even if your brain’s muddled from time to time, there’s a good detective in there.” He tapped his finger into the center of my forehead, but I batted it away. “Plus, you have access to things I don’t. Now hand me the keys or I’ll wrestle them from you, call Hale to send me a car, and do this on my own.”

He would too, so I swallowed my shame and dumped them into his hand, then moved to the passenger door.

The car had a lingering odor of decay, but rolling down the windows had undoubtedly helped. It was faint enough that I doubted anyone would accuse of us of rolling in dog shit or playing with dead meat.

Malcolm got in, then started the car, leaving the windows down as he backed out of the driveway.

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