Page 125 of The Devil’s Lair

Chapter Thirty-Seven

TOBIAS

“I’m telling Dad about the Southalls today.”

Rebecca looks up from where she’s untangling Isla’s hair, pausing mid brush. Her eyes flare wide, eyebrows lifting by a few millimeters. She finishes with Isla by tying her hair in a ponytail and sending her off to her room to pick out what clothes she wants to wear today.

Since she rediscovered her speech, Isla’s become quite opinionated about her clothing choices. I think it’s hilarious, especially as most of the time she looks like she got dressed in the dark. Rebecca is less thrilled with having a four-year-old demand to wear orange polka dot tights with a stripy bright green and red top.

“Any reason for the sudden change of heart?”

“I talked to Lilian about it yesterday. She helped me put it in perspective. He deserves to know, and honestly, I need to get it off my chest. Now that the George and Alice situation is settled, I don’t feel like I’m adding more woes to his pile. I don’t want to put it off any long. Dad deserves to know what I’ve been dealing with. I’ve never kept things from my father, and the truth feels like a burn I can’t treat until I tell him everything.”

She comes over to me and adjusts my tie, then smooths her hands down the front of my shirt. “I’m so glad you’ve come to this conclusion. Your father is an amazing man. He’d want to know what you’ve been shouldering.”

“I’m nervous. Isn’t that silly?”

She stands on tiptoes and kisses my cheek. “Far from silly.”

I brace my hands on her hips and join our foreheads. “You’d support me whatever I said, wouldn’t you?”

“On most subjects. If I disagreed, I’d tell you. But on this particular matter, I’m led completely by you. I would never push you into doing something you weren’t comfortable with. These absolute horrors put you through hell when you were just a few years older than Isla.”

Her expression changes. Not dramatically, no tears, no raised voice, but something hardens behind her eyes. “If I discovered anyone had done that to Isla, I would not stop until I ruined their lives. Quietly, methodically, and without an ounce of regret.”

She’s magnificent, a mother in full flow of protecting her cub, even hypothetically. I cup her face and kiss her soft lips. “Nothing will ever happen to Isla while I have breath in my body. I’ll keep her safe. I’ll keep you both safe.”

She covers my hands with her own. “I know you will, and we both love you for it. So very, very much.”

With comedic timing, Isla appears in the bedroom doorway dressed in mustard-colored leggings that she’s matched with a bright red tartan dress, a pair of vivid green shoes dangling from her fingers. Rebecca and I take one look at each other and have to stifle our laughter behind our hands.

This kid. My world is technicolor since she came into it. I cannot wait to be her dad for real, in the eyes of the law.

“Well, hello, pretty girl. I like your outfit.”

Isla beams, and Rebecca groans. “Guess I’m wearing sunglasses indoors today.”

“Could be worse.”

“How?”

“She might move on to picking out your clothes.”

The horror on my wife’s face puts a smile on mine. Whatever happens when I tell Dad, it helps beyond belief to know that Rebecca will be waiting for me when I return.

Since it’s a Tuesday, I find Dad exactly where I expect him to be, in his office. Even in his sixties, my father shows no signs of slowing down. I’m certain he’ll remain heavily involved in the business for the rest of his life, and I’m glad. I can’t imagine the De Vil Dynasty without my father at the helm, although Xan will make a terrific replacement. It’s something he’s trained for his entire life, and with Imogen by his side, when the time comes, he’ll lead this family forward in the way Dad intended. I hope that’s a long way into the future.

My stomach clenches uncomfortably as I tap on Dad’s open door and step inside. He greets me with his usual genial welcome.

“Twice in succession, Tobias. No diary this time, I hope.”

“No, sir.” I close the door.

My father frowns. “A closed door?” He motions to the guest chair opposite his desk. “What do you need?”

It’s so like my father to read me and offer his undivided attention and help. Before I even start, I know what I have to tell him will crush him. Maybe it’s cruel of me to share what happened to me. Would it be better to keep it to myself? The problem with that is, for as long as I can remember, I’ve always been open with my father. If I hadn’t suppressed the memories of what the Southalls did to me, I’m sure I’d have told him before now.

In all likelihood, if those fucking monsters hadn’t scared the shit out of an eight-year-old boy, I might have told him then, too. As a family, though, we had so much going on, so much grief to unpack and deal with, knowing me, I probably didn’t want to add to Dad’s pain. Instead, I absorbed it to the extent my brain protected me by making me forget and came up with an alternate plan: humor as a defense mechanism.