Page 28 of Heart of a Devil
The screen is filled with a montage of photos of Bailey, the yellow Lab I had as a kid. She knows that after he died at the ripe old age of twelve, I never wanted to talk about him again. I got rid of all my keepsakes, took his photos down in my old bedroom, and locked his leash and collar away in a drawer. My parents didn’t understand why—they probably put it down to grief—but they do know how much talking about him upsets me.
Even after all this time, my eyes fill with tears at the sight of his big goofy face, the way he always seemed to be smiling. I can still remember his velvety ears and the feel of his tongue on my skin. I loved that dog so much, but every day he was in my life, I was scared of losing him.
I’m still swiping tears from my cheeks when my intercom buzzes. I go to the screen by the front door and see Seb lurking outside. He looks like the kind of man you should cross the street to avoid on a dark night, but his hulking presence makes me breathe more easily. I press the entrance button and leave the front door open before going back into the kitchen. I’m glad he’s here, which is unsettling in itself.
“What the fuck are you doing leaving the front door unlocked?” he demands a few minutes later as he walks in and drops a big black bag on the floor. He’s angry with me, and maybe I deserve it.
“I knew it was you. I saw you on the camera.”
“So what? Anyone could have been waiting outside or hiding in the building. Use your fucking head, will you?”
I stare down at my hands, unable to bring myself to look at him because he’s so furious.
He puts his hand under my chin, forces my head up, and frowns at what he sees. “You’re crying. Please tell me that’s not because of me. I’m a shouty prick, but don’t take it seriously. It’s my way of showing I give a shit.”
I laugh and lean my cheek into his palm. “No, it’s not you… Although youarea shouty prick. It’s… these emails. I think they’re from Diego Torres.”
He drags a chair over so he can sit right next to me and slips an arm around my shoulders. “RIP Bailey,” he reads aloud. “Is this the dog you had as a kid? The one Uncle Arsehole threatened?”
“Yeah. Do you like dogs?”
“I bloody love them, unless they’re trained Doberman guard dogs with their teeth sunk in my shins. So, I’m guessing your mum wouldn’t have actually sent this?”
“No way. She knows I never got over losing him. Over the years, my sister had a few pets, and they tried to persuade me I should have more—I think they were worried about me, you know, because I was going through that ‘difficult’ stage. They suggested another dog to keep Bailey company—a cat, hamster, pony… They would have gotten me anything, but I always said no. While I was living there, while Carlos was still around, nothing I allowed myself to care about would ever be safe.”
“Jesus. That’s fucked up, sweetheart, feeling that terrified when you’re a kid, especially when nobody else knew about it.” The gentle kiss he places on my hair nearly takes me out completely, and I’m beyond relieved when he quickly moves on. “So. There’s more emails. You up to looking, or should I do it? Then we’d better send them to this Jax fella and keep him up to date.”
The comforting weight of his arm around me gives me the strength to nod and click on the next email. Bailey was my weak point, and he clearly still is. Not only because of how much Iloved him, but because remembering him means remembering that time in my life. The way it all began—those years of torment, years of isolation. It was the beginning of Uncle Carlos undoing me, turning me into a coward who fled from her own life. I will not be a coward now, I vow, and I certainly won’t run from some overzealous little douchebag whose dad was a low-level enforcer with no heart and even less brains.
The next email from my “mom” flashes up a wedding photo—me and Marshall at the courthouse in Buffalo. We don’t look happy, not even on what was supposed to be the most joyous day of our lives.
“That’s him, your ex? Looks like a cunt. No, I take that back. It’s an insult to cunts, and cunts are among my very favorite things. Especially yours.”
He’s trying to lighten the mood, and I’m thankful because the next picture is a screenshot of a news piece from a local paper. “Disgraced accountant jailed for defrauding clients,” the headline reads.
I blink, surprised. It’s only from a year ago, and I had no idea. “He was a gambler,” I explain to Seb. “Despite seeming so dull and safe on the surface. I left him way before this happened. I can’t imagine he’s doing well in prison.”
“Does it bother you? Because I’m guessing the whole point of these emails is to upset you.”
I consider it and shake my head. “No. He made his choices. He’s a grown man, and he isn’t my responsibility.”
Seb nods approvingly, and with a shaking hand, I move the cursor to the third and final email. I have skeletons in my closet, and I can hear the old bones rattling. Do I really want to do this with Seb here?
I glance up and meet his deep brown eyes. I love the crinkled corners where his laugh lines live and the little squeeze he gives my shoulders. Yeah, I guess I do. I open the message, and myheart does a cartwheel. I half expected it, but it still takes my breath away. It’s a mug shot, very obviously taken in custody, showing a skinhead in his thirties. His blue eyes are bulging and angry, his lips curled into a snarl that shows crooked, yellowing teeth. The top of a Nazi swastika tattoo is clearly visible under the neckline of his filthy T-shirt. It’s a face that haunts my nightmares for all kinds of reasons. Beneath the shot are the words “Still missing—Brad Schmidt” and a hotline number to call.
“Lauren?” Seb’s voice drags me back from the memories. “Are you okay? Who is this bastard? And who the fuck only has a jailhouse mug shot to use when they go missing?”
“Men like Brad Schmidt. And believe me, he’s going to be missing for a while. Seb… There’s something I need to tell you, and you might not like me very much when I do.”
He sees how serious I am and nods. “Okay. We can talk about it. But first, I’m going to send these to Jax, all right?”
I nod. It has to be done, and it will lead to a whole new round of questions from my family. I’ll just have to deal with it. “You go and get settled on the sofa, sweetheart. I’ll bring the wine if you like. Is this a needing-wine conversation?”
I smile sadly. “It’s a needing-a-whole-distillery-of-bourbon conversation. There’s homemade paella on the stove if you want some.”
I do as he suggested and make my way on shaky legs to the living room. It’s a cozy space, dominated by a big comfortable couch covered in pretty pink-and-gray cushions and matching throws. I’ve moved around a lot, and I like to build a little refuge for myself in my home—an adult version of a blanket fort. Within minutes, Seb joins me, looking spectacularly out of place in this ultra-feminine environment. He sets two glasses of wine on the coffee table, then looks around and nods appreciatively. “Nice. Feel like I should have brought you flowers now.”
I laugh. “I think we’re way past the flowers stage, don’t you?”
