Page 12 of The Devil’s Lair

Chapter Four

REBECCA

News about Marcus’s death has spread to my neighbors.

I woke up on Monday morning, three days after he died, to several condolence cards, and some kindly person left a casserole on the front step. Considering I’ve hardly spoken to my neighbors, thanks to Marcus controlling who I could and could not engage with, their thoughtfulness and compassion bring more tears to my eyes.

I dash them away and place the casserole dish in the fridge—one less thing to think about, and a meal Isla actually likes. Win-win. I need to hire a solicitor to defend me in court, but apart from the measly twenty pounds left in my purse from this week’s “housekeeping”, I’m as poor as the day I was born.

Marcus must have kept money somewhere in the house. I don’t know any of his pin numbers or have access to his bank accounts. If I’m to fight a potential custodial sentence, which will all but hand Isla over to Felicity and Preston, I need a solicitor. And solicitors cost money.

Once I’ve settled Isla in front of the TV, I beeline for Marcus’s office. I rarely come in here, and only ever when invited. Usually because Marcus wanted to engage in some kind of boss-slash-secretary fantasy, which always involved rough sex and pain.

As I close the door behind me, I shiver. It’s as though he’s in here, watching me. Any minute, he’s going to appear, shout, “Surprise, I’m still alive!” then punish me for trespassing in the way only Marcus could, with brutality and a side dose of glee at my suffering.

The first two desk drawers I try are stuffed with papers and stationery, no cash. It’s the third one where I hit the jackpot and grab for the thick wad of twenty-pound notes wrapped in a red elastic band. I quickly count the money: one thousand, two hundred and forty pounds. It’s a start.

The rest of the desk is empty. Systematically, I move around the office checking every single place I can think of. I don’t find anymore cash. What I have found is more money than I’ve ever had in my life, but with a child and no income, it won’t last long.

I need a job, stat.

But then… who takes care of Isla?

I sink into Marcus’s high-backed, leather chair and press my palms to my face. It’s hopeless. I don’t have any skills, work experience, or further education. Who will hire me, especially when unemployment is on the rise? Only the other day, one of the news channels was saying the unemployment rate had skyrocketed. If people with qualifications and experience can’t find a job, what hope do I have?

No. I can’t think like that. I’ve survived worse than the tough times that lie ahead. I survived Marcus. The last thing Isla needs is for me to fall apart.

I slot half the cash into my purse and put the rest in one of the kitchen drawers beneath a stack of takeout menus. In the living room, the cartoons I put on for Isla have finished, and the news is on. Isla’s pretending to feed her bear breakfast, but my eyes are glued to the TV.

It’s him. My savior.

The picture shows him in a tuxedo, and he’s smiling as he poses for the camera. Along the bottom, a ticker tape runs on a loop.

Tobias De Vil, youngest son of business titan Charles De Vil, survives gunshot wound to the chest. Recovering in a private hospital.

My shoulders slump. He made it. Thank God. The gratitude I owe that man for what he did is enormous. Not only did he save me from a bullet, he unwittingly saved me from Marcus. I need to thank him personally.

The broadcast shifts to a picture of a hospital. I catch the name Fullwood. A quick Google search brings up the address. It’s only a few miles from here.

No, don’t be silly. I can’t show up at a private hospital and expect them to let me in. He and I live in different worlds. They won’t just wave me through.

Actually, maybe they will if I explain who I am.

I run my hand over Isla’s soft hair. “How about we go out for some fresh air?”

She nods enthusiastically and brandishes Bear in the air.

“Yes, Bear can come, too.”

She springs off the couch and bolts for the coat cupboard. Even though going out means pushing my way through the journalists who were still camped at the bottom of my driveway when I checked an hour ago, I can’t stay hidden away here for the rest of my life. I slip on Isla’s shoes, then mine, and button up her coat. A knock comes at the door before I can put mine on. Please don’t let this be Felicity.

“Stay there, pumpkin.” I leave Isla sitting on the bottom stair and answer the door, only opening it a crack. “Yes?”

“Mrs. La Salle?”

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is Benton Callaghan. I work for Mr. De Vil.”