Chapter Five
“YOU’RE DRUNK.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” says Malcolm, standing in the kitchen.
At some point, when he was in the cellar, the sun came up, and now morning light cuts through the windows.
It’s too bright, so he angles himself toward Priscilla instead.
She’s standing with her back against the island, both hands wrapped around a steaming cup, looking as if she, at least, never went back to sleep.
“You need to sober up.” She puts a mug of black coffee in his shaking hands, but he slams it down on the counter.
“I need to find my wife’s killer.”
“Malcolm,” she says steadily, “I know you’re upset—”
“You’re not listening.” He drags the sheet of paper from his pocket, waves it in the air. “I have proof that someone in this house—”
“—typed a note. So does Millie. That doesn’t mean—”
“—and I intend to question everyone.”
Priscilla pinches the bridge of her nose. Just then Jaxon walks through the door, takes one look at Malcolm, and immediately starts to turn around.
“Wait,” demands Malcolm.
“Can’t,” calls Jaxon as he heads down the hall. “I was just heading out.”
Malcolm stalks after him. “I have some questions for you.”
“Sorry, big guy. Gotta get my run in.”
Malcolm claps him on the shoulder. “Your run can wait.”
“Technically, so can your—”
But Malcolm doesn’t let him finish. Instead, he pivots, shoving Jaxon through into Fletch’s office. Which would serve as his interrogation room.
One way or another, he was going to crack this case.