Page 79 of Luck of the Devil
“The table’s covered in scorch marks from decades of too many hot pans, so you just set everything down,” she said with a laugh. “The damage has already been done.”
After he set the rectangular aluminum pan with a shiny silver lid on the table, he reached into the bag and brought out several more, then started on the next bag. He’d gotten enough food to feed at least ten people.
When my grandmother commented on it, he said he hadn’t known what everyone liked so he was covering his bases. But I suspected he wanted leftovers for my grandparents. The state of their house made it clear they weren’t rolling in money. A month ago, this would have surprised me about him, but not now. He’d noticed they were in need and done what he could to help. Just like he’d helped his brother, Jed, Misti, and probably countless other people.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. My parents—social pillars in their community, who certainly had the means to help—had cut off their own family. Yet here was James Malcolm, criminal and social pariah, stepping in to take care of people who meant nothing to him.
Hannah brought out plates and silverware, and Malcolm served everyone, giving them a little of just about everything. When I handed him my plate, I held my breath, hoping to catch his gaze. He focused on the plate as he filled it, but when he handed it back, his eyes finally latched onto mine for a second. Instead of anger or contempt, I saw concern and a hint of warmth.
I sucked in a breath as I took the food. He was a man who was capable of holding grudges. Why wasn’t he holding one against me now?
After he filled his own plate, my grandfather said grace. I snuck another glance at Malcolm, who was seated next to me. His head was bowed, his hands folded together at the edge of the table. Had he been raised going to church? The more I learned about him, the more questions I had.
As soon as my grandfather said, “Amen,” Hannah began to pepper me about questions about my life. Thankfully, she skipped over my childhood, instead focusing on my college years and why I’d decided to join the police department. I glossed over my answer, saying I’d felt drawn to serve my community. She asked questions about my career as a beat cop, then a detective, but stopped short of asking anything about the shooting.
Any time there was a lull in the conversation, she came up with another question, but she was so effervescent it never occurred to me to not answer. I began to realize she reminded me of someone I missed terribly.
“You’re a lot like Andi,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.
Hannah’s mouth dropped open and then quickly closed. My sister was one of two elephants in the room, and up until this point, she hadn’t been mentioned or even hinted at since Hannah had arrived.
“That is the highest compliment you could pay me,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “Your sister was blessing, Harper. The world lost a beautiful soul when she died.”
“Agreed,” I said, the familiar pang of regret and sorrow flooding my veins. “My mom felt the same way.” That was one of the few things we’d agreed upon.
Hannah looked down at her plate and stabbed a piece of penne pasta, likely shocked into silence. I’d brought up both unspoken taboo subjects in practically the same sentence.
And as much as I hated to change the conversation, I realized I’d accidentally shifted it where we needed it to go. “Aunt Hannah,” I said softly. “Tell me about growing up with my mother.”
She cast a cautious glance to my grandmother, who nodded. Hannah took a deep breath and then started spilling stories of their childhood. I’d already heard some of the stories from my grandmother, but some were new, and I realized that their relationship reminded me of my own connection with my sister.
“It sounds like you were close when you were younger,” I said. “When did you two drift apart?”
She hesitated for a moment, then stuffed a forkful of salad into her mouth, probably to buy herself more time. But I waited her out, and once she swallowed, she reluctantly said, “Junior high. She decided it wasn’t cool to hang out with her little sister anymore. Part of it was understandable.” She shrugged. “There’s a big difference in the maturity of a twelve-year-old versus a ten-year-old. But it was ultimately her new friends who drove us apart. They thought I was uncool, so she did too.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “She shouldn’t have done that to you.” I could only imagine how I would have felt if Andi had turned on me.
Hannah shrugged. “It’s the way of the world. Of course, some siblings grow out of it, but Sarah Jane just seemed to get worse. Especially when we were older. We still fought like cats and dogs. We always seemed to get over it. Until our last fight.”
“What did you fight about?”
“Stupid shit.” She sighed. “I admit, in hindsight, I kind of deserved it. We were there for Andi’s ninth birthday party, and your mother didn’t do anything by halves, so it was no surprise the party looked like something on a TV show. I told her that the whole thing was a desperate attempt to impress people.” She made a face. “Well, that pissed her off, and she said I didn’t understand her life. And of course, I didn’t help matters when I told her in a not-so-quiet voice that I’d rather take a bullet to the head then give my nine-year-old a birthday party with a petting zoo.”
I cringed. My mother wouldn’t have reacted well to that in private, let alone in front of her friends. Somehow I’d missed it. “And you never spoke again?”
“Oh no, we spoke a few times after that, although it was terribly strained. I apologized. I admit, I saw things a little differently when I got married a few years later and had kids of my own.”
“I have cousins?” I blurted out. The Aunt Hannah I remembered hadn’t been married, but she’d been in her thirties. She’d still had plenty of time to get married and have kids.
She grinned. “Yep. Two of ’em. Although they’re a whole lot younger than you. Amelia’s twenty and Becca is sixteen.”
“I’d like to meet them sometime,” I said.
Her grin softened into a warm smile. “They’d like that too. They know about you”—she held up a hand—“none of the bad stuff, just that they have a cousin who used to be a police detective and now lives in Jackson Creek. When they ask why they can’t see you, I tell them you’re really busy.”
“You could have made me look like a bad person,” I said, my voice tight. “My mother told you all that I didn’t want anything to do with you.”
She shrugged. “You were a kid when it all went down. I’m sure she stuffed your head with her side of everything.”
