Heart of a Devil

Prologue

LAUREN—AGE 10

“ B ailey. Bailey, where are you? Come on, boy, dinner time.”

I wander around outside my house, shaking Bailey’s can of treats. He loves his treats, and he usually comes galloping over as soon as he hears the rattling sound they make against the metal. Papá says he’s greedy, and Mamá says he’s just a Labrador who can’t help being what he is. I don’t mind if he’s greedy—he’s my beautiful golden boy, and he’s been my best friend since my birthday last year. I’ve always wanted a dog, but until then, I had to make do with my stuffies. I begged to get a real one, promised I’d look after him, and I do. I feed him and walk him and brush his soft fur until it’s smooth. My sister helps, but she doesn’t like him as much because he slobbers. That’s another thing he can’t help, and secretly I’m glad he prefers me anyway.

I jump over the hula hoop I was playing with earlier and dodge the sprinkler that’s watering the lawns. Bailey normally likes the sprinkler, but today he’s nowhere in sight. I’m starting to worry because he usually stays close. We have a big yard, but I checked all his favorite spots and still can’t find him. It makes my tummy feel weird.

Mamá would tell me I’m being a worrywart right now. She tells me that when I’m freaking out about my grades or stuff at school. She says I need to relax because nothing will ever hurt me—because I’m safe here.

I don’t believe her anymore. Not since that day two weeks ago, when the Bad Thing happened. School finished early because the power went out, and I came home alone. I shouldn’t have—our driver Ernesto picks us up from school when Mamá can’t make it. But my friends were all doing it, and I wanted to be with them. As soon as I saw my Uncle Carlos’s car in the driveway, I realized it was a mistake.

Uncle Carlos scares me. I don’t know why. He’s my papá’s baby brother, and he’s never been anything but nice to me. My sister adores him, and he’s at our house a lot. I should be used to him by now, but my tummy gets tied up in horrible knots when I’m alone with him.

After I saw his car, I snuck off down the side of the house to avoid seeing him. I headed past the pool house and down toward the garage and the shed where the gardener keeps all his tools. Nobody ever goes in there, so I thought I’d be safe hiding out until my sister or parents came home. I had my backpack with me and some snacks left over from lunch—I’d be fine.

I was halfway along the path when I first heard the sound. It was horrible, like nothing I’d ever heard before in real life—a man screaming and crying. It made me freeze on the spot, and I was so scared I couldn’t move. I tried to tell myself I was just being a worrywart like my mom says, that it was probably a noisy movie or something.

Except I knew, deep down, that it wasn’t. It was too real, and it turned my blood to ice. The screaming carried on, getting louder and louder, the howled words not making any sense. It was terrifying, and I thought I was going to be sick—but it was worse when the screaming stopped.

The door to the gardener’s building flew open, and Uncle Carlos stepped out holding a pair of big scissors in his hands—the ones Emile uses to shape the rose bushes. Something red dripped from the blades, and it was all over his face too. He was grinning to himself, his teeth big and white like the picture of the Big Bad Wolf in my old Little Red Riding Hood picture book. I’ve never been so scared in my life. It was worse than the nightmares that made me scream and scream until Mamá and Papá came into my room and sang me back to sleep.

He stopped dead when he saw me, and his grin got even wider.

“Come and see, princesa. Come and see what happens to people who disobey your tío.”

I shook my head and turned to run, but I was so frightened I tripped over my own feet and hit the ground. He came over, pulled me up by my arm, and dragged me with him. His grip was so hard it hurt, and he shoved me into the shed. My eyes were shut super tight, but I could still smell the coppery tang in the air. I could taste it on my tongue, and it reminded me of going to the butcher shop with Mamá on Sundays to get our meat for the week.

He gave me a rough shake. “Open those pretty brown eyes, little girl. Open them, or I will open them for you. I could chop off your eyelids, snip snip snip.”

He snapped the giant scissors open and shut right by my ears, and my whole body was shaking. He would cut me—I just knew it.

I finally did as I was told and immediately wished I hadn’t. The man in front of me didn’t look human anymore. He looked like a creature, a monster from one of my books, dangling from a hook on the ceiling. His fingers were missing, and I couldn’t look at any of the rest. I forced my eyes away and found myself looking down at the plastic sheet, where I saw a fat, red lump of meat that I realized was his tongue. Uncle Carlos tortured this man and cut out his tongue, and now he was making me look. The disgusting sights and smells made my stomach hurt so bad I threw up.

“He’s dead, sweetheart,” my uncle said, sounding amused. “Away with the angels. And if you know what is good for you, you will never mention this, you understand? Not to your mamá or your papá or your darling sister—because if you do, then who knows? Maybe this will happen to you. Or to one of them. Or to your precious puppy. What do you say, Lauren—can you keep a secret?”

I had no idea why he did this terrible thing or why he did it here. My papá and his brothers were businessmen who owned hotels and companies all over the country. They weren’t murderers. Surely Papá and Uncle Mateo didn’t know about this. I wanted to tell them, but Uncle Carlos is crazy and cruel. He meant it when he said he’d hurt us. It seemed like he wanted to hurt us, that maybe he’d enjoy it.

If I tell, he will kill me or someone I love.

I nodded so hard my curly hair flew out of its bun, strands of it sticking to my cheeks. I was crying. “I promise, Uncle. I will never ever speak a word, I swear.”

“I believe you, angel. Let’s just make sure you understand though, sí?”

He grabbed my hand and pulled on my fingers. No matter how much I struggled and tried to keep them in a fist, he wouldn’t let go. I wasn’t strong enough to resist him, and he was laughing and squeezing until my bones squished together. Then he took those awful scissors, still bloody from the dead guy, and scraped one of the blades across my palm. It hurt so bad, and my blood dripped onto the floor. He smiled when I started to sob.

“Silly girl, Lauren. So very clumsy. You cut yourself in the kitchen, trying to make your old uncle a snack, didn’t you? Isn’t that what happened?”

I nodded quickly, and when he finally let me go, I ran away as fast as I could. Back to the house and all the way to my room. I tried to clean up the blood with tissues and told myself that everything would be okay. Everything would be okay as long as I didn’t tell.

Bailey had been locked inside the house, and he ran up the stairs after me, his tail wagging. I threw myself onto the bed and snuggled up with my stuffies, including the big one that looked like Bailey. At first, he thought it was a game and jumped around and barked, but then he jumped up on the bed with me and looked at me with his big brown eyes. I hugged his chunky neck while I wept, and he licked my tears away and made everything feel a little bit better.

That was two weeks ago, and I haven’t told anybody anything. I’m too scared. I think about Uncle Carlos and those big scissors every night when I go to bed, and I’m scared all the time. I can’t concentrate in school, and I don’t care about my grades anymore. If I do manage to forget it all for a minute, the cut on my palm reminds me. I told my parents I cut myself by mistake, like he said to. I was so scared they wouldn’t believe me, but I must have done a good enough job to convince them. They called Dr. Luther, and he came out and gave me some stitches and a lollipop and told me I was a very brave girl.

Except I’m not brave. I’m a coward. Nothing feels safe anymore. I don’t enjoy anything now—not movie nights or our Friday family dinner or chatting with my friends. The only thing that makes me feel better is Bailey, and now I can’t find him.

A bad feeling grows in my belly as I wander around looking for him. “Bailey! Bailey, where are you, boy?”

Mamá and Papá are both home. It would only take me two minutes to run back to the house and get them. Mamá is making dinner, and Papá is doing work in his office. But I don’t want to bother them. I’m probably being silly. Bailey probably chased a bird and got a little lost. I’ll find him any second now.

I don’t want to go back down to the gardening shed. I hate it there. Even seeing it makes me taste blood and fills my ears with the sounds of that man screaming.

It’s the only place I haven’t checked, though, so I don’t have a choice. “Come on, Lauren, stop being a baby,” I mutter to myself, standing in front of the door. I’m really scared. The man isn’t there anymore. Emile has been using the shed like normal and everything has been cleaned up, but I still think it smells weird. Probably my imagination.

Still, I am thinking about running back to the house and asking my parents for help when I hear him—a little woof, a little whine. “Bailey.”

As soon as he hears my voice, he goes crazy, and I pull the door open. He runs out to greet me, jumping up and down and whirling around in circles and leaping so high he can lick my nose. I end up rolling around on the grass too, giggling, so happy to see him. “How did you get in there, silly boy?” He answers me with a big sloppy kiss that makes me laugh, but I’m still confused.

The door has to be pushed or pulled shut, and I frown as I realize Bailey wouldn’t have been able to do that. He might have been hiding, and someone accidentally closed him in there…

Except Bailey is a big dog, and he’s loud. He loves people, and he never hides from them.

I’m still trying to figure it out when I see my uncle walking across the grass. He wasn’t here earlier. Has he been lurking around our house without us knowing? Does Papá know what a monster his brother is? He can’t know, can he? If he knew, he’d stop him.

His big, scary shadow blocks the light, and I grab Bailey tight. Having my dog close makes me brave. “Did you trap Bailey in there, Uncle Carlos? Are you angry with me? I didn’t say a word to anyone.”

“Silly girl, what do you mean? Why would I do that? It would be dangerous for him in there, wouldn’t it? Rat poison, blades, chemicals, all kinds of things that could hurt a dog. If someone left any of those lying around, if someone opened those poison boxes and left them for this greedy boy to poke his fat nose into, then who knows what would have happened? But it looks like he had a lucky escape. This time.”

He winks at me and reaches out to pat Bailey. Bailey growls a little, but he’s too sweet to do anything more. Still, I quickly pull him back and whisper soothing words. He’s never bitten anyone, ever. He’s a good boy. But if he did bite Uncle Carlos, he’d make sure everyone knew, and Bailey would have to go to the vet and not come home like my friend Sasha’s dog last year.

“He seems fine to me, conejita. But if he had come to some harm, if I had trapped him in there and mixed rat poison with that chow he likes, then maybe it would have been to remind you to keep those pretty lips of yours shut. To make sure that we understand each other. Now, come on up to the house. You’re late for dinner—but you’re so spoiled, you girls, nobody will mind. If your pup did die, they’d probably just get you a new one.”

No! I will look after Bailey, and I will keep him safe. And after that I will never have another dog. I will never give anyone the chance to hurt me like this again.

I follow Uncle Carlos into the house and run straight upstairs, shouting to my papá that I need to wash up and I’ll be down soon.

When I walk into my bedroom, I freeze. Every one of my stuffies, some of which I’ve had since I was a baby, are destroyed. Ripped and torn, scattered around my room like Bailey used to do with the trash when he was a baby. Tears fill my eyes, and I get really cold when I look at my bed. One of my biggest toys was a stuffed dog that looked just like Bailey—a soft yellow Lab that I hugged every night before I got the real thing. His belly has been sliced open, and all of his stuffing is pulled out. I swallow my sobs because I know who did this. And I know what he is trying to tell me.

If I don’t do as I’m told, this will happen to the real Bailey.

I clean up the mess, tears running down my cheeks. My mom lied. I’m not safe here. Nobody is safe here.