Page 72 of Luck of the Devil
There were photos of their wedding, and then of my mother pregnant. Images of my father putting a crib together and of a baby shower where my mother was surrounded by at least forty women.
“The church here in Jackson Creek gave her a shower,” Grandma said, pointing to photo of a rectangular table covered with a white tablecloth and loaded with gifts. “Your father’s law firm gave her one too, but we didn’t make it for that.”
Many of the photographs showed my mother sitting in a rocking chair in varying stages of opening gifts. She was smiling in the images, but they weren’t the wide, bright-eyed smiles of her youth and teen years. These smiles looked cultivated and slightly fake.
Had my father expected that of her or had she determined that was what he wanted?
Next were tons of photos of me as a baby, starting with my mother and me in the hospital after my birth. There were only a few photos of my mother holding me. Instead, I was held by my father and grandparents. The photographs continued both at our Jackson Creek house and here in my grandparent’s home when Mom and I had stayed for a few months. They captured Halloween—I was dressed as a pumpkin—Christmas, my first birthday, and then my mother pregnant with Andi. There were fewer photos of baby Andi than me, and while it was often true that second children were photographed less, these photos had been taken by my grandparents. This could be proof my mother had begun distancing herself from her parents even earlier than they’d suggested.
The photos dwindled until the year I turned thirteen and had a roller-skating party. My grandparents had come, but my mother hadn’t. She’d wanted a tea party theme at home with frilly dresses and tiny cakes, not roller skating, but my father had insisted it was my birthday, not hers, and she had to let me do what I wanted. She’d gotten pissed and told him if I was having a party at a dirty roller rink, he could plan it himself. To his credit, he had, not that it was anything fancy. I’d invited half a dozen friends, and Andi had brought some of her own. My father had gotten what my mother called a tacky store-bought cake, and it had been one of the best parties I could remember having. Several parents had asked where my mother was, and my dad had said she’d been suffering from a killer migraine.
It was the last birthday party I ever had. My mother refused to plan one the next year, then after Andi’s death, I’d never wanted one.
All these memories were like a heavy weight on my shoulders, and an ache filled my chest. What had happened to my mother to make her turn out the way she had? And did it have anything to do with what had ultimately killed her?
I didn’t realize my breathing had become labored until Malcolm gave me a concerned look.
“Harper, why don’t we go outside and get some air?”
As he asked, he was already getting to his feet and offering me his hand.
I took it without thinking, mostly because I wasn’t sure I had the presence of mind to find the exit on my own, but once our hands connected, it felt right, like we’d always held hands. Still, I didn’t give it much thought other than I wanted him to hold my hand, no, needed him to hold my hand. His touch was the one thing keeping me from losing it.
He led me out the front door and across the yard to the back of his car, then released my hand. It felt wrong to not be connected to him anymore, but I couldn’t very well protest.
What would he do if I asked him to hold it longer?
What would he do if I asked him to hold me?
But obviously, I couldn’t do either of those things. Even though I suspected he’d give me both if I asked.
He rested his butt against the trunk, and I did the same, my heart beating wildly. I recognized this for what it was—a panic attack. I’d had them after Andi had died, and thought I was having a heart attack. (My mother had accused me of creating unnecessary drama.) Then I’d started having them again after I’d shot the boy in Little Rock. Alcohol had helped hold them at bay. Did that mean they’d become more common again?
We stood side by side for a few minutes while I struggled to breathe, Malcolm giving me quick glances every so often. By the time it began to subside, my anxiety was replaced with anger. What the hell was wrong with me? Millions of people had lost their mothers. Millions of people had shitty childhoods, and the majority of them weren’t drunks who fell apart without their alcohol crutch.
This wasn’t me. I was strong, goddamn it. I didn’t fall apart.
Liar, a little voice in my head said mockingly. You’ve been unraveling for years, you’ve just tried to outrun it. But you can’t outrun it forever.
I ignored the stupid voice because that wasn’t true at all. I’d had a tough-as-nails reputation in the police department. I’d held my shit together for years, but one trip to my grandparents had me on the edge of a nervous breakdown.
“What the hell are we even doing here?” I spat, my voice breaking.
“We’re looking at photos with your grandmother,” he said evenly, his hands jammed in his front jeans pockets as he stared down the street.
“We told them my mother was dead, found out what little we could, so we should be on our way back to Jackson Creek. Going through ten million photos isn’t helping find out who killed her.”
“You’re right,” he admitted in that frustratingly reasonable voice. “I doubt we’ll find anything in those photos that will lead to who killed her, but you need this.”
I turned on him, so angry I had to clench my hands into tight fists. “Who the hell are you to tell me what I need?”
He didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He just stood there, close enough that the heat from his body tangled with my anger in ways I didn’t want to name. When he turned to me, his face neutral, but his eyes—quiet, intimate—cut through me.
Dangerous.
My breath hitched. The heat rising in me had nothing to do with withdrawal.
But he was the picture of calm, and it pissed me off even more.
