Page 76 of Devotion

Layla: I have to go. This conversation officially never happened.

Only, ithashappened, and I can’t take back what I just nearly did, shining light on the brokenness I try and fail to hide. Damien is wrong about me. My scale is skewed toward wickedness, and I’m suddenly aware of something.

The closer I get tohim, the less light I see. In me. In others. Which means I’ve reached a tipping point.

Do I run and save my soul from damnation?

Or do I take his hand and choose darkness?

The choice is mine, but as I think deeper, glancing toward my bed as ghosts of the two of us fucking on my sheets fill my vision, I ask myself another question.

Have I not already chosen?

Damien

Tuesday—work, carwash, liquor store, exits with a brown bag in hand, home.

Wednesday—work, cleaners, home.

Thursday—work, liquor store, exits emptyhanded, grabs carryout, stops off at a house that isn’t his.

For three days now, I’ve been tracking Diego’s habits, getting a feel for how his day flows, noting when he’s at his most vulnerable. Days one and two, his routine was exactly what I’d expect, but today, he’s deviated.

I sink deeper into my seat as he exits his car, heading toward the front door of a townhouse in a small complex I’ve driven past a time or two before. The food he picked up dangles from his fingers as he checks his watch, and then knocks.

What the hell are you up to?

Eventually, the door swings open, and a dark-haired woman stands on the other side. I don’t miss how her face lights up when she sees him. Nor do I miss how she locks her arms around his neck, followed by a little girl who can’t be much older than three latching onto his leg. The woman releases him, and he hands her the food, so he can scoop the little girl into his arms. Half a second later, he’s inside and the door closes behind him, but I’ve seen enough.

The kid is clearly his, and my guess is he led Layla to believe his dealings with the girl’s mother are water under the bridge. Meanwhile, that’s definitely not the case.

I still don’t know what this asshole did to warrant Layla evensuggestingthat I take him out, but honestly? I don’t care. I’ve been wanting to end him since I first saw him touch her, since I first saw his sad attempt at fucking her. He didn’t know it then, but he’s had a date with death for a while now.

Only, now, Layla sees it too.

She’s been quiet the past few days. She’s hardly left her apartment, and when she does, she returns with food. I recall how she tried to take it all back—her request to indulge in our peculiar form of shared art—but when it comes to her, I’m like a dog with a bone. I’ve got Martinez’s scent, and I’ll see this shit through to the end.

Because this…this…is what I fucking live for.

Hours pass, and once the light inside the woman’s home goes dark, it’s safe to say Martinez is in for the night, concluding my recon mission.

I know his work schedule, know the places he frequents throughout the week, and more importantly… I know where he lays his head at night.

I can’t help but smile as I pull away.

This shit is almost too easy.

28

Layla

Apparently, not even a cup of Dad’s famous cocoa can bring me out of my funk. And only now, as I stare at my father seated about a foot away on the edge of my bed, do I realize I haven’t done a good job of hiding it.

“Is it hot enough? I know it’s not good to you unless there’s danger of burning your lips off, so I brought it up as quickly as I could.”

The joke only draws a small smile out of me. It’s the best I can do.

“It’s perfect. I can feel the blisters forming as we speak,” I tease.

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