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I took the keys and lifted a brow. “What makes you think a man screwed me over?”
She laughed, placing her hand on the bar and leaning closer. “Aren’t men always screwing women over?”
She had a point, and it was damn good advice. Probably the best I’d received since this nightmare began, but it wasn’t that easy. And the Little Rock Police Department didn’t give a shit how well I lived my life. Neither did Keith.
I pulled out my wallet to hand her some cash, but she waved me off. “Nope. On the house. Believe it or not, I was a lot like you three years ago, and someone helped me. Just paying it forward.” A warm smile lit up her eyes. “If you ever need a friend to talk to, I’m a great listener.”
Was she a criminal too? Maybe not, but I figured there was no way she didn’t know about her boss’s past. “Thanks,” I said, not adding that I doubted I’d ever be back, at least not alone.
Why would I come here when I had a perfectly good bottle of Jack Daniel’s back at my new apartment calling my name?
Chapter 4
I woke to a pounding on the door.
Prying my eyes open, I winced from my throbbing headache. Soft sunlight poured through the cracks on the sides of the window shades. It was either really early or a thick cloud cover had rolled in.
“Harper, I know you’re in there!” my mother shouted. “Open the goddamn door before I’m forced to get the key!”
I sat up in shock, then nearly threw up as my studio apartment started to spin.
My mother never shouted, and she definitely never cursed. Especially that word. Growing up, she’d always told me and my sister Andi that good Christian Southern women did neither. She didn’t allow cursing in the Adams household, and even my father abided by her rules. Mostly. So to hear her this worked up sent my heart racing.
“Coming!” I shouted despite my dry mouth. A fresh wave of pain washed through my head.
I got up and stumbled the short distance from the daybed to the solid wood door. Last I remembered I’d been on the sofa, drinking directly from my bottle of Jack Daniel’s. When had I stumbled to the bed? I blinked to clear my vision as I unlocked the door and opened it.
My mother stood on the porch, fury on her face as her upper lip curled in disgust. She was wearing a velour tracksuit, and her shoulder-length blond hair hadn’t been brushed. Even more shocking, she wasn’t wearing any makeup. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her face bare. Probably when I was nine and vomited all over my bed in the middle of the night.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Harper Leigh,” she said, eyeing me up and down. “Are you wearing the clothes you had on last night?”
A quick glance down confirmed I was indeed wearing the jeans and olive-green sweater I’d worn to meet Louise.
Her nose scrunched, then she waved her hand in front of her face. “You smell like the bottom of a barrel of whiskey.”
I wasn’t sure how she knew what a whiskey barrel smelled like since she never allowed hard liquor in her house either, but it didn’t seem like the best time to ask. Especially since she was right.
“Good morning to you too,” I said, my eyelids half-closed. The sky was barely pink at the horizon. “Why are you over here this early?”
She gave me a soft shove back inside, followed me in, then shut the door behind her. I stumbled backward and grabbed onto the short kitchen counter to stay upright.
“Are you drunk?” she asked in horror. “At six-thirty in the morning?”
No, but I had one hell of a hangover. “I just lost my balance,” I said. “Why are you here?”
Her gaze scanned my studio apartment, well, technically, her apartment. I just happened to be staying here, rent free.
“Do you never clean?” She picked up a half-empty glass and a plate smeared with cream cheese and a half-eaten, now petrified, bagel from the small two-person table by the window and carried them to the sink.
“Mom,” I said in exhaustion and a little bit of fear. This wasn’t like her. At all. Sure, harping about my filth and cleaning up after me fit her like a kid glove. No, it was her appearance that was startling. I was fairly certain she kept a tube of Estee Lauder lipstick in the nightstand drawer and put it on before she got out of bed, even to pee at three a.m. Something was really wrong, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell me yet.
“What happened?”
She eyed the empty Jack Daniel’s bottle on the floor next to the sofa opposite the door, and after picking it up between her thumb and forefingers, she dropped it into the trashcan with plenty of pomp and ceremony. “You’re going to destroy your liver, Harper Leigh.”
“My liver’s just fine.” Obviously, she wasn’t ready to tell me whatever was bothering her. I’d learned from past experience that she couldn’t have a difficult discussion before releasing her pent-up anxiety. Cleaning and criticizing were her typical go-tos.
Check and check.
