Page 52 of Little Girl Vanished

I gave him a questioning look.

One side of his mouth lifted. “People tell me things.”

“Because you’re a bartender?”

He didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes told me it wasn’t the only reason.

Shit. Trusting this man to get me information wasn’t a good idea, but I needed all the help I could get.

He glanced over at the bar, scowling. “I’ve gotta get back to work. Get out your phone.”

“Why?”

The look he shot me made it clear he considered me an imbecile. “I’m gonna need your number.”

Chapter 17

“Why?” I demanded. The last thing I wanted to do was give my personal number to a crime boss.

“So we can stay in contact. Share information.”

My jaw locked. “We’re not working together.”

“You’re trying to find a kid, and I plan on proving I had nothing to do with her disappearance. We need to share our information.”

“Forgive me for not giving a shit about your personal problems while I try to find a missing child.”

His eyes narrowed, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if his hand had jerked out and snatched me by the throat. “I’m gonna help you find her,” he grunted, “if for nothing else than to prove I had nothing to do with it.”

“How selfless of you.”

But something in his eyes told me he was doing this for other reasons. The fact he’d sworn to make anyone who hurt a kid disappear forever backed it up. Of course, it could have all been a ploy to get me to trust him—which meant it was working—but my instincts told me he was on the up and up. That didn’t mean I had to share anything with him. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have his number.

I pulled out my phone and opened the text app. “Shoot.”

He made a face. “Is that a word you should be throwin’ around, Detective Adams?”

My anger reignited. While I’d joked about it with Nate, Malcolm’s cavalier attitude plucked a raw nerve. “Fuck you.”

“You wish, but sadly, I can’t accommodate.”

He said it with so much arrogance, I was tempted to throw my nearly full glass of beer in his face.

The corner of his mouth ticked up, and he rattled off a number. I typed it in with angry stabs, which pissed me off. I was used to being the epitome of control. While I’d lost that part of myself months ago, this man made me feel like I was toppling into an abyss.

After I entered his number, I texted.

In your dreams, asshole

He removed his phone from his jeans pocket and studied the screen with a sardonic grin, typed something, and then put his phone down.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Detective.” Then he slid out of his seat and headed back to the bar, checking on customers at their tables as he went.

I glanced at my phone and scowled.

Maybe in yours

Asshole.

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