Page 1 of The Devil’s Lair

Chapter One

REBECCA

Fear is an emotion I’m intimately familiar with. Each morning, I wake with a glacial dread in the pit of my stomach, wondering what fresh hell awaits me.

Fight or flight.

That’s what humans are supposed to do when faced with danger. Except I never fought or fled.

I froze.

Day after day, month after month, year after violent year, I stayed. For her. For my daughter. I knew he’d never let us go, so what was the point in running? He’d come after me, drag me back and… I can’t even bear to think what he’d have done.

Bang!

I flinch. The faint odor from the gun clings to my nostrils, acrid and unfamiliar. I stare down at my hands, dotted with the stranger’s blood. They won’t let me clean up. They won’t let me call anyone. The babysitter must be worried by now. She’ll stay, though. She’d never leave Isla alone.

Ever since Marcus pointed that gun at me and fired, my brain has short-circuited, almost as though it’s buffering, like a show streaming with bad service. The pieces are all out of order as they would be if the memories were cut up, tossed in the air, and haphazardly put back together.

Harsh, fluorescent overhead lights hurt my eyes. I can’t stop shivering. My teeth are chattering despite the warmth coming from a radiator in the corner of the police interview room, and the unforgiving metal chair keeps sending shooting pains up my spine. I’ve lost track of time. An hour, a day, or a week could have passed since my life changed forever.

Will I ever see Isla again?

Is the stranger who threw himself in front of a bullet to save me dead?

Where is Marcus?

What happens now?

The man who saved my life looked dead, a grayish pallor to his face, and that crimson stain spreading… spreading, eclipsing the crisp white of his designer shirt.

Why would he have done such a thing for a woman he didn’t know? Marcus would never put himself in harm’s way for a stranger. Hell, Marcus wouldn’t stand in the line of fire for his family.

The door behind me opens, and two men in blue suits pull out the chairs on the opposite side of the table. The legs scrape against the floor, the sound accentuated by the horrible acoustics in here. Do they do that on purpose?

One of them smiles and places a plastic cup in front of me filled with what looks like weak tea. I take a sip. Ugh. But despite the taste, it’s warm while I’m desperately cold. Not sure tea can fix my ills, though. I’m not sure anything can.

The other man has a face like well-worn leather, full of creases and folds, his jowls shading what might have been a square jaw when he was younger. He doesn’t smile at all, just sits and adjusts his shirt cuffs.

“Mrs. La Salle, thank you for agreeing to speak to us,” the kindly policeman begins. “I’m Detective Blakeley, and this is Detective Chadwick. I understand you’ve declined to have a solicitor present during this interview. Is that right?”

“Is he alive?” My voice wavers, and I can’t stop wringing my hands. The clothing they gave me when I arrived scratches against my skin. I want a shower to wash off the stench of blood and death.

“Answer the question,” Chadwick says without a lick of warmth in his voice.

I tremble. His attitude reminds me of Marcus, all authoritative and domineering. I shake my head. “I’m okay. I just want this over with and to go home. My daughter needs me.” God, what will Rina be thinking? Has anyone told her what’s happened? “Can I call my babysitter?”

“Soon.” Somehow, Detective Chadwick makes “soon” sound like “never.”

“Mrs. La Salle, you’ve been brought in for questioning following a fatal shooting at The Lair earlier this evening. This interview will be recorded.”

Fatal shooting. Fatal shooting. The man who saved me paid with his life.

My hearing fades in and out. I think I’m being read my rights. God, this is awful. Awful. That poor man. Did he have a family? Do they know he’s dead?

“Mrs. La Salle!”

I blink, the sharp tone dragging me back to the present. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”