Page 92 of The Devil’s Lair

A picture of a gray-haired woman in her late fifties fills my screen. My stomach bottoms out, the edges of my vision turning black. A tremor runs through my entire body, small at first, then violent enough that I almost drop my phone. Rebecca says something, but her voice is muffled, distant, like I’m under water.

My pulse spikes. My lungs claw for air.

This can’t be real.

Rebecca touches my arm. I flinch, launching to my feet. “I-I need a minute.”

Then I’m running, running, except the one thing I’ve run from since I was eight years old has caught up to me, and there’s no escaping the horror now.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

TOBIAS

I slam the door behind me and barely make it across my living room before my legs buckle. Stumbling, I make it to the bathroom. My knees hit the floor. Nausea surges up my throat and I lurch over the toilet bowl, heaving.

Once my stomach ejects what feels like poison rotting me from the inside, I collapse onto the cool tile. Sweat beads my brow. I wrap my arms around my bent legs and drop my forehead forward.

Every breath is a shard of glass embedding itself in my lungs. Images start firing in my brain, too fast, too bright. Too fucking disturbing for me to fully acknowledge.

The library.

The smell of old books.

Her hands smoothing my hair, stroking my cheek. Such a good boy, Tobias. My special boy.

Her husband sitting in a leather wing-backed chair, one leg crossed over the other. Watching. Always watching. Directing.

My stomach lurches again. I pitch forward, clinging to the porcelain bowl. My mouth fills with saliva, but all that comes up is bile. I flop against the wall again, exhausted.

Devastated.

A sound rips from my throat, somewhere between a choke and a sob. I press my damp forehead to my knees, shaking hard enough to rattle my bones.

Don’t tell anyone, Tobias.

Bad things will happen if you do.

You’re special, chosen. My beautiful boy.

My pulse roars in my ears, loud enough to drown out the noise of a fighter jet. I cover them and squeeze my eyes closed. I’m him again, that frightened eight-year-old boy who’d lost his mother and his sister, then lost himself.

I push to my feet and strip out of my clothes. Cum sticks to my stomach—a harsh reminder of how I lost control with Rebecca yet couldn’t follow through. Couldn’t bear to let her touch me.

Fuck.

I turn the water as hot as it will go and stand beneath the scalding spray, but nothing can erase the memories. They won’t stop. They won’t stop. I scrub my skin raw. I can’t get it clean.

I can’t fucking get it clean.

Bracing both hands on the tile, I let the water pour down my back and squeeze my eyes closed. I’ve unlocked the door to a nightmare, and no matter how badly I want to, I can’t slam it shut. Tears spill down my cheeks. I brace my forehead against the wall. How could I have forgotten what they did to me? Why didn’t I tell my dad or my siblings? Why did I shoulder this alone? Shame? Guilt?

Jesus Christ.

What the fucking hell is wrong with me?

I lose track of how long I stand there with the scorching water turning my skin raw. Somehow, I get a grip on my emotions and slow my breathing. Turning off the shower, I roughly dry myself and pull on a robe, then I head for the door. I don’t make it that far. My legs give way, and I sink to the floor again. I wrap my arms around my knees and bury my head.

A sob bursts out of me, and the pain hits like a fireball in my gut. Fuck, I want to turn it off, to go back in time, to never ask the questions. It’s agony, the remembering. I don’t want to fucking remember.