Page 74 of The Devil's Torment

“Wait.” Victoria grabs my forearm as I reach for the door handle. “I’m coming, too.”

“No, you’re not.”

Her lips thin, and her eyes do that flashing thing that tells me she’s about to give me a piece of her mind. I cup a hand around the back of her neck and bring our foreheads together.

“We don’t know who this guy is or what he’s capable of. Your safety is all that matters.”

“What about your safety?”

“I have Barron with me, and I’m more than capable of taking care of myself. If you come with me, I’ll be worried about you, and that will make it more dangerous for all of us.”

She surrenders in stages: a heavy sigh, eyes cast down, shoulders slumping. “I hate it when you make logical sense.”

I chuckle and kiss her forehead. “Sol, lock the doors.”

The gates are locked, but there’s an intercom attached to the wall. I press it and wait.

“Yes?” a male voice comes through the speaker.

“I need to speak to the owner urgently.”

“I am the owner. Who is this?”

“My name is Nicholas De Vil.”

There’s a pause, then, “Who?”

My temper ratchets up, a prickle of irritation crawling up my neck. I run my finger around the collar of my shirt. “I think you heard me the first time. Open the gates.” As an afterthought, I add, “Please.”

The intercom cuts out and for a split second, I consider what I’ll do if the gates remain closed. One way or another, me and whoever drives that Aston Martin are having a conversation. Today.

A buzzer sounds, then the gates open inward. I stride up the driveway with Barron right beside me. Before we reach the front door, it opens. Standing on the other side is the man from the café.

“I’m not sure what this is about, Mr. De Vil, but I don’t believe we know each other.”

“Correct, Mr…”

He hesitates for a second. “Earnshaw. Joel Earnshaw.”

I nod. “I apologize if I came across as a little… brusque. I won’t take up much of your time.”

His gaze travels to Barron. “And you are?”

“He’s with me. Five minutes. That’s all I ask.”

With some reluctance, he steps back and motions us into the house. I step into a large hallway with herringbone oak flooring. A staircase leads to the upper floor, and several doors are off the entranceway. He leads us to the one at the far end, which opens into a decent-sized kitchen overlooking a pristine lawn lined with trees, shrubs, and autumn flowers planted in raised beds. A dog runs around the back yard, yapping at the birds and leaping into the air in a futile attempt to catch one.

“Please, have a seat.” He motions to a small table in one corner of the kitchen.

“I prefer to stand.” Reaching into my pocket, I pull up the image of the drawing and turn my phone to face him. “Does this man look familiar to you?”

He peers at the picture for a second before his eyebrows lift a few millimeters. “Why, it looks a little like me.” Frowning, he shakes his head. “Although the eyes aren’t right, and I don’t wear glasses.” A small laugh. “Nor a baseball cap. My head is too big for those things.”

He seems genial enough and certainly surprised at the similarities between himself and the picture on my phone.

“Can I ask what this is about?”

“My wife’s sister was murdered in September.” I keep to myself that Elizabeth was my fiancée at the time. Too many branches to divert the issue away from the matter in hand. “The man driving the cab that exploded, killing her instantly, is the man in that picture.” I study him carefully. “The man that looks like you.”

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