Page 63 of The Devil’s Lair

I peer at Isla hunched over her drawing, too busy coloring outside the lines to pay attention to us. I rest my chin on the top of Rebecca’s head. There’s no need to speak. We don’t need words. We have something far more powerful—a connection borne out of our shared trauma at the hands of her husband.

She’s had it far worse than me, though. I only got shot. When I close my eyes, I can still see the scars on her back.

I stop rubbing. What if I’m hurting her? It’s almost three months since the shooting, but many of her scars were fresh, still red and bumpy where the skin was damaged.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers. “It’s comforting.”

“I don’t want to hurt you. Your scars.”

“It doesn’t hurt. I forgot I even had them. Please, don’t stop.”

Although I’m certain she hasn’t forgotten them, I listen to what she’s saying and resume the circular motion. She makes another of those noises, and her body relaxes even more. I lose track of how long we stand there encased in each other’s arms. What I do know is that I never want to let her go.

“How did he know where we’d be?”

“My guess? He’s having you followed. Don’t worry. I’m taking care of it.”

A tug on my trousers has me looking down. Isla’s got crayon smeared up her face and her hands are multicolored. She’s showing me a picture from the book. I keep hold of Rebecca but give my attention to Isla.

“That’s so pretty, sweetheart. You’re such a clever girl.”

She grins then returns to the table, climbs up onto a chair, and flips to the next page in the book.

“What did Rory say after I left?”

I clench my jaw. “Nothing worth repeating.”

“I’m sorry I ruined our day.”

I lean back and wait for her to give me her eyes. “You didn’t ruin anything. He did. And it’s only ruined if we let it, and that way he wins. We don’t want him to win, right?”

Her smile wavers. By sheer force of will, she holds it in place. “No, we don’t want that.”

“How about a movie marathon? I can make popcorn, and we can hunker down in the cinema room with blankets and watch movies until it’s time for dinner.”

“You have a cinema room?”

“Yes.”

“Tobias, I hate to break it to you, but any home with a cinema room cannot be described as a cottage.”

I grin. “So, how about it?”

“Sounds like the perfect way to spend an afternoon.”

“Great. You take Isla and get settled, and I’ll toss the kernels into the popcorn machine. It’s down the hallway, third room on the right.”

She heads off with Isla, who dumped her coloring book for movies in a flat-out second, while I make two large bowls of popcorn—one salty, one sweet.

We get through two and a half movies before Isla lets us know she’s hungry. We eat dinner, then Rebecca takes Isla upstairs for a bath, then bed. As much as I’d love to be a part of Isla’s bedtime routine, I leave her to it. After what happened today, she’ll probably want a little time alone with her daughter. Time to reflect and piece herself back together after La Salle’s verbal abuse.

I should’ve beaten him until he couldn’t stand up. I would have, too, if it wouldn’t have made a mess of Vanessa’s café. If our paths cross again, he’ll fucking regret it.

My phone dings with a text. I pick it up.

Caleb

It’s dealt with, sir.