Page 9 of Luck of the Devil
“Guess you’ll see when we get there.”
I sank back into the plush leather seat and closed my eyes. If I was on my way to my murder, at least I was going out in style. Not that I really thought he was dangerous to me. We’d reached a kind of truce, and even before then, I’d felt safe enough with him. Sure, I’d seen him murder two men in cold blood, but I didn’t fear for my own life. He’d done it out of his own form of justice. I wasn’t a threat to Malcolm. Especially not in this state.
My hands had begun shaking so hard I shoved them under my legs to keep them still, and the sweat on my neck and back was making me stick to the seat.
Malcolm shot a glance at me, then held out his silver flask.
“I’m not drinking that,” I said, turning to look out the window.
Sighing, he pulled it back, unscrewed the cap, then took a small sip. “It’s not poisoned. See?”
“I never thought it was poisoned. I just don’t want a drink.”
It was a bald-faced lie. I was dying for a drink, and sitting on my hands was doing double duty—not just controlling the shaking but preventing them from snatching the flask out of his grip. I was stronger than my need for a drink, and I wasn’t giving in.
“You can’t just quit cold turkey,” he said in a softer tone. “You need to taper off.”
“I didn’t know you had an M.D. after your name.”
“It doesn’t take eight-plus years of school to know that quitting abruptly like that is hazardous to your health.”
My stomach cramped. He wasn’t wrong, but admitting he was right would be admitting I’d fallen down the slope further than I’d realized, and I wasn’t ready to face that yet. Not out loud.
“Give it a rest, Malcolm,” I snapped. “I’m not an alcoholic.”
“So why are your hands shaking?”
Goddamn him. “Because I’m cold!”
He didn’t respond, which only pissed me off more.
I glanced out the window and saw we were headed toward Wolford, the town north of us. “Are you planning to dump me at a treatment center?”
“And who the hell would pay for that?” he mocked. “You’re flat-ass broke, and I’m not sure your daddy’s in much better shape.”
Between my job at the law office and the money Vanessa Peterman had given me for finding her daughter, I wasn’t flat-out broke, still I doubted I had enough to pay for rehab. But it was the latter statement that caught my attention. I jerked my head to face him, instantly regretting the sudden movement. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Maybe your father isn’t as well off financially as he’d like people to believe.”
“What?” I shook my head. I almost asked him how he knew, but at this point I believed he knew just about everything that went on in this town. The real question was whether he was bluffing about my father’s finances. Then again, Malcolm didn’t bluff, at least not with me.
How financially bad off was my father? I felt sick thinking about the implications. Suddenly, this all felt like too much.
“Never mind,” I said, grabbing the arm of the door and looking out the back window. “I want out of this stupid field trip. Take me home.”
“Too late for that, Detective.”
“The hell it is. If you don’t take me home right now, I’ll press charges for kidnapping.”
He let out a genuine laugh that caught me by surprise and somehow loosened the cord of dread squeezing my heart.
“You don’t think I’d do it?” I demanded hotly.
“I think you’d rather kick my ass yourself,” he said with a grin. “You wouldn’t get the same satisfaction if you handed me off to the sheriff’s department.”
I had to admit he had a point. In a little over a month of working with him, my moral compass had shifted. The satisfaction from vigilante justice was hard to deny.
He cast a glance at me, his smile fading. “I have a job for you to do.”
