Page 73 of Luck of the Devil
“Is this a game to you?” I demanded.
Irritation flickered in his eyes.
Ah, a reaction. Smug satisfaction filled my chest. I was spoiling for a fight, and it wouldn’t work if he didn’t participate. But I couldn’t ignore a different tension that sent a tightening to my core. It had nothing to do with anger. It was the kind of tension that made my skin heat up and my pulse go wild. The kind that made me want to close the distance between us and make a very bad decision.
“What the hell does that mean?” he asked.
I took a step back and gestured to the house, trying to ignore the way my body felt alive. It only made me more pissed. “You must be loving the Harper meets her grandparents show. Plenty of fodder to use against me later.”
He shook his head, his jaw tightening. He took a step closer, trapping me between the car and his body. The air between us felt charged, making it hard to remember why I was supposed to be angry with him.
“Is that what you think this is all about?” he demanded. “You think I suggested we look at photo albums so I could watch you squirm and rub it in later?”
“Why else would you convince her to drag them out?” I countered, trying not to shout.
“That’s what you think of me?” he asked, his cheeks flushing. “You think I’d have you look at photos of your mother to torture you?”
Torture was too strong a word, but if he didn’t think we’d learn anything from them, what was the point? What could have been a five-minute trip down memory lane had dragged out for a good forty-five minutes.
He studied me for a moment, shaking his head. “You must think I’m an absolute monster. Of course you do. You’ve called me that before.” Only he’d worn the title proudly then. Now he looked affronted. No, not affronted. He looked hurt. But that couldn’t be right. There was no world in which I was capable of hurting James Malcolm’s feelings.
Still, my heart lurched. What if I was wrong?
“I’ll admit I was a bastard when we worked on our first case together,” he said in a tone that sounded reasonable but had a hint of danger under the surface. “But I thought we’d made progress on our last investigation. And after last night, I thought you’d begun to trust me.”
“You’re an ex-crime boss, Malcolm,” I countered. “That in and of itself makes you untrustworthy.”
He nodded once slowly. “Yeah. You’re right. Thanks for the reminder.” He took a step back. “You know what? Do whatever the fuck you want with the photos,” he said, his voice so icy it made me shiver. “But maybe ask yourself this: what would I get out of torturing you? If I wanted to torture you, I would have let you fumble your way through the DTs last night. I would have been the monster you think I am to your grandparents.”
He was right, and I knew it, but there was only one logical explanation, and it didn’t make sense. “Then why, Malcolm?” I demanded, the pain in my heart so sharp I could hardly breathe. “Why help me last night? Why make me look at photos of my mother?”
He drew a breath. His face had morphed into the steely blankness I was all too familiar with. “Why do you think I helped you?” he asked in a snide tone. “I did it because I need your help with this investigation. If your mother’s murder has any ties to what I’m lookin’ into, then it’s a win/win for both of us.” He gestured to the house. “And as for the photos?” He stopped, quiet for several seconds as though weighing his words. “I thought there was a slight chance we’d find something useful, and since we had to kill time until your aunt shows up for dinner, I figured we might as well do it looking at photos of you and your mother.”
Two weeks ago, I might have believed him, but now I knew he was lying. The ease with which I could read him caught me by surprise. But I’d gotten to know him over the past few weeks, and I recognized that a lot of his bravado with me was a front.
Just like mine was with him.
Taking a step backward, he pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the screen. “While I’ve been busy babysitting you and your family, I’ve missed some important calls.”
“Malcolm.” It came out as a plea.
“I know we suggested goin’ out to eat, but I think it might be a better idea to eat in. Especially given the questions we plan to ask your aunt.” He tugged his key fob out of his jeans pocket. “Tell them I’ll be back in an hour with dinner.”
“You’re leaving me here?” I asked, feeling slightly panicked, although I wasn’t sure why. Was it because I’d have no way out if I became too overwhelmed by the family reunion? Or because I was worried he’d head back to Lone County without me, leaving me to find my own way home?
He scoffed in disgust. “You make it sound like you’re a puppy abandoned on a country road.” He shook his head, then pointed to the house. “This is your family, Harper, and unlike your parents, they actually give a shit about you. I would have killed to have grandparents like yours, but mine were too goddamned drunk to give a shit about me, let alone spend time with me.”
Something cracked in his voice, a rawness I’d never heard before, and it hit me square in the chest. The vulnerability in his tone made me want to step closer, not away. This was dangerous territory—not just because of his pain, but because of my sudden, fierce urge to comfort him.
“Those people—” He cut himself off and drew in a deep breath. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
Before I could respond, he was already walking to the driver’s side of the car.
I couldn’t let him leave like this. While I’d been going through my own emotional crisis, apparently, he’d been going through one too. Like recognized like, and I realized he was lashing out to keep his emotions locked up. Still, me being nice to him was the last thing he wanted right now.
So I did the only thing I knew how to do, because habits die hard. I lashed out at him too. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll find out something from my aunt and keep it from you?”
He turned to look at me, his jaw clenched so tight it would be a wonder if he didn’t crack a molar. Then he just shook his head, got in the car, and drove away.
