Page 2 of Luck of the Devil
James Malcolm was a known former crime boss who had done several months in a federal prison before he was released. He’d gone on to open up a tavern here in Lone County. While the Lone County Sheriff’s Department and the Jackson Creek Police Department couldn’t find any current dirt on him—and Lord knows they’d tried—I knew he was far from innocent.
He’d committed four murders in the last month alone, and I’d been privy to all of them.
Very few people knew I had any association with James Malcolm, and I preferred to keep it that way.
To say I’d been peopled out was an understatement. Most of the town believed I’d murdered a fourteen-year-old boy five months ago while I was on duty as a Little Rock police detective. I’d lost my job and my reputation, along with my house, which I’d sold to help pay my legal bills. Other than my father and my friend Louise, a Little Rock patrol officer who’d moved to Lone County shortly before I’d moved back myself, no one wanted me here.
My mother certainly hadn’t been happy to have me back.
Louise was still watching me with concern, so I wrapped my arms over my chest and said, “I just need to make it through the graveside service, then I’m going home. I’m not going to the luncheon.”
Louise offered me a look of understanding and gave a nod. “I’m sure your father will understand.”
I wasn’t so sure of that, but he wouldn’t guilt me into going like my mother would have. Then again, maybe it would be easier for him if I wasn’t there. He was currently the center of attention in front of my mother’s casket, getting sympathy from multiple middle-aged women. He did look handsome in his black suit, crisp white shirt, and black tie. Sure, he had some gray at his temples, but my father was a good-looking man, an attorney, and newly single. I suspected he wouldn’t have to worry about meals for months. The local women would take turns bringing him casseroles in the hopes of becoming the next Mrs. John Adams.
The thought of my father with another woman made me want to reach for my flask and drink enough alcohol to forget.
I’d picked a hell of a time to try and stop drinking.
The funeral director walked up to my father and whispered in his ear. My father nodded, then lifted his head, scanning the room, and I took that as my cue.
“Looks like you need to go,” Louise said. She’d make detective in no time with her observation skills. She gave me a hug, holding me close for several seconds. I wasn’t a hugger, so I was stiff, but then my body relaxed and I hugged her back, grateful to have her as a friend.
“I won’t be able to go to the graveside service,” she said apologetically. “I only got the morning off, but I’ll drop by the house to check on you later tonight.”
“Thanks.”
Then I headed toward my father, ready to bury my mother. If only I could bury my guilt with her.
Chapter 2
My father was understanding when I told him I was skipping the luncheon, and I was pretty sure I saw a flicker of relief in his eyes. Having me here in town was fairly new and likely stressful. Hell, he’d left my mother over it. Besides, he was tired and worn out from the grief and funeral preparations. He didn’t need to be worrying about me.
I drove back to my mother’s house, parked in her driveway, then headed for the apartment over the detached garage at the back of the property. I’d moved into the studio apartment upon my return. It had been my mother’s stipulation to my homecoming, not that I’d complained. I’d wanted my space.
Her house was sitting empty now, but I’d only slept in there one night since I’d been back, and that was only because the door to my apartment had been destroyed by gunfire.
Why was my door shot up? Long story … but I was back in my apartment two nights later, and I’d been here since, quite literally. I had barely left other than to go to the funeral home with my father—and then to my mother’s bedroom to pick out a dress for her to wear in her casket.
I trod up the wooden steps, casting a glance at my mother’s back door. In the summer, my mother had flower beds surrounding the house that burst with color, and a few bulbs were shooting green stalks into the cool March air. They’d bloom soon, revealing whether they’d be tulips or daffodils, and my mother would have cut them and put them in a vase on the marble top table in her living room.
This year they’d die and decay. Just like her.
Lord, I’m morbid.
I unlocked my front door and headed toward my espresso machine, pressing the button to turn it on. My fingers were itching to open the cabinet door under my sink to grab a bottle of alcohol, but I steeled my back. I could make it through a fucking day without alcohol. Or at least the rest of a day.
Sure, I hadn’t gone a day without a drink for four months, but lots of people had a drink a day—a beer to unwind after work. A glass of wine at dinner. A cocktail with friends.
The way I’d been drinking lately, though… It was like there was a prize at the bottom of the whiskey or vodka bottle. I’d known it was getting out of control, but I’d told myself that I would stop soon. That I had it under control. I’d been fooling myself, of course, and the last week had proven it.
Maybe if my mind hadn’t been so muddled with alcohol, I would have realized sooner that my mother was missing. Maybe her body wouldn’t have been at the bottom of the Red River for three days.
I swore I’d never take a drink again, because if I hadn’t been drunk the past month, I might have been able to stop my mother from running off. And if she hadn’t run off, then she’d still be alive.
Wanting to remain sober and actually doing it were two very different things. But my mother had always said I had a strong will. It was time to prove her right.
Fighting the urge for a drink, I gripped my fist so tightly I felt a sharp pain. I glanced down and found red half-moons with beads of blood on my right palm.
