The Devil’s Lair (The De Vil Dynasty #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

REBECCA

Fear is an emotion I’m intimately familiar with. Each morning, I wake with a glacial dread in the pit of my stomach, wondering what fresh hell awaits me.

Fight or flight.

That’s what humans are supposed to do when faced with danger. Except I never fought or fled.

I froze.

Day after day, month after month, year after violent year, I stayed. For her. For my daughter. I knew he’d never let us go, so what was the point in running? He’d come after me, drag me back and… I can’t even bear to think what he’d have done.

Bang!

I flinch. The faint odor from the gun clings to my nostrils, acrid and unfamiliar. I stare down at my hands, dotted with the stranger’s blood. They won’t let me clean up. They won’t let me call anyone. The babysitter must be worried by now. She’ll stay, though. She’d never leave Isla alone.

Ever since Marcus pointed that gun at me and fired, my brain has short-circuited, almost as though it’s buffering, like a show streaming with bad service. The pieces are all out of order as they would be if the memories were cut up, tossed in the air, and haphazardly put back together.

Harsh, fluorescent overhead lights hurt my eyes.

I can’t stop shivering. My teeth are chattering despite the warmth coming from a radiator in the corner of the police interview room, and the unforgiving metal chair keeps sending shooting pains up my spine.

I’ve lost track of time. An hour, a day, or a week could have passed since my life changed forever.

Will I ever see Isla again?

Is the stranger who threw himself in front of a bullet to save me dead?

Where is Marcus?

What happens now?

The man who saved my life looked dead, a grayish pallor to his face, and that crimson stain spreading… spreading, eclipsing the crisp white of his designer shirt.

Why would he have done such a thing for a woman he didn’t know? Marcus would never put himself in harm’s way for a stranger. Hell, Marcus wouldn’t stand in the line of fire for his family.

The door behind me opens, and two men in blue suits pull out the chairs on the opposite side of the table. The legs scrape against the floor, the sound accentuated by the horrible acoustics in here. Do they do that on purpose?

One of them smiles and places a plastic cup in front of me filled with what looks like weak tea. I take a sip. Ugh. But despite the taste, it’s warm while I’m desperately cold. Not sure tea can fix my ills, though. I’m not sure anything can.

The other man has a face like well-worn leather, full of creases and folds, his jowls shading what might have been a square jaw when he was younger. He doesn’t smile at all, just sits and adjusts his shirt cuffs.

“Mrs. La Salle, thank you for agreeing to speak to us,” the kindly policeman begins. “I’m Detective Blakeley, and this is Detective Chadwick. I understand you’ve declined to have a solicitor present during this interview. Is that right?”

“Is he alive?” My voice wavers, and I can’t stop wringing my hands. The clothing they gave me when I arrived scratches against my skin. I want a shower to wash off the stench of blood and death.

“Answer the question,” Chadwick says without a lick of warmth in his voice.

I tremble. His attitude reminds me of Marcus, all authoritative and domineering. I shake my head. “I’m okay. I just want this over with and to go home. My daughter needs me.” God, what will Rina be thinking? Has anyone told her what’s happened? “Can I call my babysitter?”

“Soon.” Somehow, Detective Chadwick makes “soon” sound like “never.”

“Mrs. La Salle, you’ve been brought in for questioning following a fatal shooting at The Lair earlier this evening. This interview will be recorded.”

Fatal shooting. Fatal shooting. The man who saved me paid with his life.

My hearing fades in and out. I think I’m being read my rights. God, this is awful. Awful. That poor man. Did he have a family? Do they know he’s dead?

“Mrs. La Salle!”

I blink, the sharp tone dragging me back to the present. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I said, do you understand?”

I’m too afraid to ask them to repeat whatever it is I’m supposed to understand, so I nod. No matter what I do my hands will not stop shaking.

“For the tape, please.”

I flick my gaze to the tape recorder, the solid red light an indication it’s capturing everything I say. “Yes, I understand.”

Blakeley leans forward, his fingers threaded together and forearms braced on the table. “Where did the gun come from, Mrs. La Salle?”

My chin trembles. I wrap my arms around myself. I’m so cold. So cold. “It’s Marcus’s gun,” I whisper.

“How did it end up at the club?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“You do know,” Chadwick snaps. “Mrs. La Salle, the handgun involved in tonight’s shooting is illegal, and I want to know where it came from.”

“It’s Marcus’s gun,” I repeat. “I don’t know where he got it from. You’ll have to ask him.”

Blakeley glances at Chadwick, who gives a brief nod, before he returns his attention to me. “Mrs. La Salle, did you not hear me when I said the shooting at the club was fatal?”

“Yes, I heard. I’m so sorry. That poor man. Marcus was going to shoot me, and he jumped in front of me. He saved my life.” My voice breaks, and I cover my face with my hands. “He saved me, and now he’s dead. It’s my fault.”

“Mrs. La Salle.” Blakeley’s tone is gentle, coaxing. Slowly, I drop my hands back to the table. “Mr. De Vil, the man who you say took the bullet meant for you, is alive.”

“What?”

“I said he’s alive.”

The torrent of relief that rushes through me leaves me lightheaded. I squeeze my eyes closed, waiting for the spinning to stop. “Thank God,” I mutter.

“He’s in surgery, so not out of the woods yet. As of now, though, he isn’t dead.” Blakeley falls silent. Only when I open my eyes and look at him does he continue. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. La Salle. It’s your husband who was fatally shot.”

I blink, my lips parting. Did he say…? Did he…? Marcus is dead?

“Are you sure?” I whisper.

“Positive,” Blakeley says. “I’m sorry. I assumed you knew. You were there.”

He’s right, I was, but after Marcus fired the gun, everything is hazy. Chaotic. I remember commotion, shouting, someone wrapping a robe around me. Sirens. Police. Then being brought in here.

“There are gaps. I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”

“That’s the shock.” Blakeley’s kind smile is meant to reassure me. Unfortunately, Chadwick’s sour scowl cancels the other man’s empathy. “Would you like us to call a doctor?”

“No. I’m okay. I just want to go home.”

“How did the gun end up at The Lair, Mrs. La Salle?” Chadwick asks.

“Please, my daughter. Her babysitter will be wondering where we are.”

He sighs, drumming his fingers against the table. “The sooner you answer our questions, the sooner this is over with.” Chadwick’s eyes bore into me. For a second, I consider lying, even though it’s pointless. They already know the truth.

Marcus is dead.

My years of torment are over.

“I took the gun to the club.” Whatever trouble I’m in, at least it’s not as bad as it would have been if I’d gone through with my plan to shoot Marcus.

Instead, a guardian angel stepped in and took care of him for me.

“Who killed him? Marcus, I mean,” I ask.

“Why did you take the gun to the club?”

“I—”

A sharp rap comes at the door, and a woman enters. “Detective Chadwick, the DCI wants a word, sir.”

“Now?”

“Yes, sir.”

Chadwick huffs and jerks his chin at the tape recorder.

“Interview paused at one-oh-five a.m.” Blakeley stops the tape.

Chadwick’s chair scrapes against the floor again, and he leaves the room. As soon as the door closes, Blakeley leans forward.

“Mrs. La Salle, before the interview reconvenes, I advise you to engage a solicitor. If you don’t have one, we can call the duty solicitor.”

I don’t know if he’s supposed to advise me or if he’s stepping out of line. Either way, I smile gratefully. The shock is wearing off, and I’m feeling stronger, clearer. “Will a solicitor be able to magically erase what happened? What I did?”

“No. They can advise you on what to say and what not to say, though.”

“You know, Detective Blakeley, I try to teach my daughter that honesty is important, as is owning up to your mistakes. She’s only four, but it’s never too early to learn good habits and solid morals.

I appreciate your advice, and I’ll be sure to let you know if I change my mind.

All I want to do is go home, and I’m going to take the path of least resistance to make that happen. ”

Before Blakeley can respond, Chadwick returns, sits back down, and instructs Blakeley to restart the tape.

“Interview restarted at one eleven a.m.,” Blakeley announces.

“Mrs. La Salle, you were about to tell me why you took the gun to the club,” Chadwick says, chest puffed, arms folded.

I sit up straighter, squaring my shoulders.

“Because I’ve lived through years of abuse, Detective Chadwick, and I’d reached my breaking point.

I had planned to shoot my husband until Mr. De Vil talked me out of it.

When I put the gun on the table, Marcus grabbed it and went to shoot me.

That’s when Mr. De Vil was shot. That’s it. That’s all I know.”

Chadwick’s chest puffs up even more, a triumphant glint in his eye, as though he just cracked open an international crime ring and is already planning what he’ll wear when the king knights him.

“Rebecca La Salle, I’m charging you with possession of a prohibited weapon. You do not have to say anything but—”

I tune him out. I’ve seen the TV shows. I know how it goes. Once he’s finished his spiel, I stare him dead in the eye.

“I’d like to call my daughter’s babysitter now.”

It’s Blakeley who takes me to a phone, then steps out of the room to give me privacy. My hands shake as I dial Rina’s mobile number.

“Hello?”

“Rina, it’s Rebecca.”

“Rebecca! God, are you okay? What’s happened?”

“I’m okay. Is Isla all right?”

“I think so.”

Something cold settles beneath my ribs. “What do you mean?”

“I mean your delightful mother-in-law ordered me to leave. I told her I didn’t work for her, not that it made a difference. She virtually shoved me out of the door. I only just managed to grab my handbag and phone.”

“Felicity is at my house?” I whisper. “With Isla?”

“Yes.”

My heart sinks. My mother-in-law is a formidable woman, and I’ve never been able to stand up to her.

“Rebecca, what’s going on?”

“Marcus is dead.” The words feel strange in my mouth. “And I’m at the police station.”

“Oh, God. Jesus, how?”

“Didn’t Felicity tell you?”

I presume she knows. The police would’ve gone around to her house and told her. What will she do now that Marcus is gone? I should feel sorry for her—no parent should ever have to bury their child—but Marcus was a monster, and she had to have known that.

“No. She just said my services were no longer required and to get out. I tried calling you.”

“The police took my stuff.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m okay.” I’m not okay. I am far from okay.

Once the call is over, I pay little attention as the duty sergeant reads out the charges. It’s the moment he tells me I’ll be kept in custody until my court hearing in the morning that I almost lose it.

“Please, I’ll go to the hearing, but I have to get home to my daughter. I promise I’ll be wherever you tell me to be.”

“Sorry, love. It doesn’t work like that.”

A uniformed officer leads me to a cell, and the doors clang shut. I stare at it for the longest time, a feeling of dread churning in my stomach.

What the hell have I done?