Page 8 of Luck of the Devil
“How so?”
I pushed out a sigh of frustration. “She liked to control people, and I was usually uncontrollable.” I ran my hand over my head. “Look, I don’t want to get into the details of my family trauma, but suffice it to say, my mother and I didn’t get along before my sister’s kidnapping, and after, well, she blamed me, and she made no secret that she hated me.”
I took a breath, then reached for my cup with shaky hands.
Malcolm’s gaze, of course, followed my movement. “You’re in withdrawal.”
“Bullshit. I’m not an alcoholic.”
“You’re shaking. You’re sweating. You’re anxious. You have a headache.”
“I have a headache because I had to suffer fools at my mother’s funeral, and I’m anxious because you’re at my kitchen table, accusing me of suffering DTs.”
But I could see that he might be right, and it scared the hell out of me.
He lifted his shoulder in a half shrug. “I call it as I see it.”
I hated his smug sneer. “You don’t know everything, James Malcolm.”
“Never claimed to, but I’ve seen a few drunks detox in my time, so I recognize the signs.”
“Fuck you.”
He just continued to smirk at me.
“I can’t do this right now,” I said, my voice breaking. It was all too much. Him in my personal space… His insinuations that my mother might have been murdered because of me… Him claiming I was suffering from alcohol withdrawal…
My breaths were coming in short bursts, and I felt like my chest was going to explode.
He got to his feet in one fluid motion. “Come on.”
I glared up at him. “What? Where do you think we’re going?”
“Somewhere you can breathe.”
Chapter 4
I stood on the wooden porch, watching as Malcolm descended the steps, my stomach twisting. I hadn’t decided whether I wanted to follow him.
Stubbornly, I refused to believe my mother had been murdered, but my stomach still lurched. I told myself I didn’t trust him, and yet I did.
What if he was right?
There was no way he was, of course, so wouldn’t it be great to prove him wrong?
There was no doubt he wanted answers, and now I did too. Sighing, I gave into the inevitable. I followed him to his car and got in on the passenger side, then fastened my seat belt. I started shivering from the chill, and I realized I’d just walked out in fifty-degree weather wearing a spaghetti strap top.
What an idiot.
But I was too proud to say I needed a jacket. “Are you taking me out to the country to kill me and bury my body?”
He let out a derisive snort. “Do you take me to be that stupid? My car was likely captured by a half dozen video doorbells. If I was going to kill you and go to the trouble of hiding your body, I would have been a helluva lot more discreet.”
“Wow. That makes me feel a whole lot better.”
“Good,” he said in that irritating smug tone as he backed his car into the street before starting down the road, away from downtown.
“Where are we going, Malcolm?”
