Page 81 of Devotion

From this day forward, Detective Diego Martinez will live on… as nothing but a fucking memory.

29

Layla

It’s funny.

I’ve never paid much attention to the clock on the dining room wall before. But now, as I sit in the darkness, it ticks so loudly I can’t imagine it not being heard from everywhere inside the house.

My heart jumps when the back door opens. Then, I’m perfectly still as Dad steps in, breaking the silence with the sound of his rain-soaked boots squeaking over the tile. He places his bag and his keys on the kitchen counter behind me. Next, he removes his coat and boots, then the floor creaks beneath the weight of his slow steps.

“I came as soon as I heard.”

He doesn’t elaborate, but we both know he’s speaking of Martinez’s death. The entire city has likely caught wind now that it’s spread to the news outlets, but I’ve known since morning, the second Mack called to see if I’d heard from Diego because he hadn’t shown up for work. Hadn’t called. I played it off during that conversation, but I knew.

I’ve gone over things a million times in my head, how differently things would’ve played out if I’d just gone to Chief Jude weeks ago when I received Damien’s first message. Or if I’d leftThe Junglethat night instead of waiting around for Martinez to show up. My path never would’ve crossed Damien’s, and things would be a lot more black and white right now because, as it stands… all I see is gray.

I lower my head, feeling the deepening thud inside my chest. I swear, my heart beats differently just at the thought of him. The monster I set free. The dog I mistakenly took off his leash, not once, but twice now. Only, this time is different. Unlike with the librarian, I knew exactly what I was doing when I brought up Martinez. And now, his blood is on my hands. I gave the all-clear for Damien to do this. Yes, I pulled back in the end, but I’ve come to learn that there’s no such thing as pumping the brakes with him. Not when it comes to me.

But while I don’t even think I could look Damien in his eyes right now… I also know I don’t want the last time I saw him tobethe last time I’ll see him.

“How are you holding up?”

I shrug when Dad asks, but no words leave my mouth. There’s nothing to say. I don’t get to feel anything but guilt, knowing this is on me. I feel him staring as I pour myself another glass of wine. I don’t lift my eyes from the table when he comes into view, then pulls out a seat and joins me.

“I know you and Martinez had your differences,” he begins. “And no matter what happened last night… this isn’t your fault, sweetheart.”

With my thoughts racing, it takes a moment to process his words, then another moment to realize they don’t make sense.

He’s staring, his eyes filled with compassion when I meet his gaze with confusion.

“If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I should’ve gotten you help years ago.Betterhelp. But all I could think about was protecting you, shielding you from the world. But it’s true what they say about hindsight. It’s clear to me that by diminishing the reality of your illness, I’ve done you a disservice, and I can’t even begin to apologize enough for that. I—”

“Dad, what the hell are you talking about? You’re not making any sense.”

He pauses when I interrupt, but there are too many emotions swimming in his eyes to figure him out.

“You were upset last night after we talked. I saw you leave, Layla, and I have to ask… where did you go?”

I’m breathless as tension spreads across my brow. And as if the universe is responding to my growing rage, lightning flashes outside the bay window, followed by a deafening crash of thunder.

“Are you seriously…?” I catch myself, lowering my volume when I start again. “I went to blow off some steam. Is that not okay?”

He stares, and I swear I can see the disbelief in his eyes. It’s enough that I feel a sudden chill in the room as my posture stiffens.

“You think I did this.”

I don’t form this as a question, because itisn’ta question. It’s a statement of confirmation as I realize what his angle is.

He wants me to confess.

“This wasn’t me. I could neverhurtanyone. Despite what you think, I’m not her. I’m not… Mom.”

He winces when I speak of her, as though it was only yesterday that she was taken from us.

I peer up when he stands, saying nothing as he leaves the room, headed toward the hallway. I hear him unlock the door to his office, then he rummages around inside for a moment before he comes this way again. And before I can make any sense of what’s happening, he tosses a stack of pictures onto the table.

Damien’spictures.

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