Page 116 of The Devil's Torment

I briefly update him on finding the key all those months ago, but never knowing what it might have fitted right through to Nicholas finding the box hidden behind one of Mum’s paintings.

In typical fashion, Dad doesn’t interrupt me. That skill is one of the many things I adore about my father. He lets people talk, and he just listens. Only when I pause for breath does he speak.

“Your mum did journal on occasion, although she wasn’t as prolific or dedicated as you.” He holds out his hand. “May I see it?”

“Not yet. Dad…” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fuck.”

He sits up straighter, resting the edges of his hands on his desk. “Alexander, what is it?”

Now the time’s come, I can’t find the words. I don’t know where to start. However this comes out, it’s going to destroy my father, and when he looks back, I’m afraid the only thing he’ll remember is that it was me who wrecked his memories of my mother and his love for his brother.

“Son, you’re worrying me now. Come on. Spit it out.”

Rip off the plaster. Say it fast. Say it now. Do it.

“Uncle George raped Mum the night before your wedding, and Annabel and I are his kids, not yours.”

The words rush out in a jumble, but Dad gets the gist. If I’d punched him in the face, I could not have shocked my father any more than my spluttered confession has done. He reels backward, his chair slamming into the bookcase behind him. Blood drains from his face, and his hands shake when he lifts them to push a non-existent lock of hair away.

“Your mother says that? In there?”

“Yes.” Unable to look at him for a moment longer, I squeeze my eyes closed. “I’m so sorry. So fucking sorry.”

“Give it to me, Alexander.” The quiet way he asks and the gentle tone to his voice forces my eyes open. My hands shake as I pass him the journal.

Silence thickens the air as he flips through, his eyes traveling across the pages at lightning speed. I can tell when he reaches the part Nicholas read out because he stops, and this murderous expression comes over his face. Without saying a word, he continues reading. My heart is in my mouth, and my fight or flight instincts are urging me to flee. The next time he looks at me, I’ll know the truth, and I’m not ready for it. I’llneverbe ready for him to look at me differently than he has for thirty-six years.

The book snaps shut, and I jump. His eyes travel to mine. I look away.

“Alexander.”

I force them back to him. “Sir?”

He gets to his feet, rounds his desk, and stands in front of my chair, looming over me. “Get up.”

I’m not a man who fears much, but as I push to my feet, my knees knock together. I’ve spent my life loving and respecting this man. If he rejects me, I won’t handle it.

He clasps my upper arms. “You are my son. You havealwaysbeen my son, and you will still be my son even after I leave this life and go be with your mother.”

Relief slams into me. My shoulders sag. “And you’re my father. I love you, Dad.”

His eyes brim with tears, and he doesn’t stop them falling down his cheeks. The last time I saw my dad cry was at Mum’s funeral, and seeing him break down is my undoing. My own tears fall, and we hug one another for several minutes, each of us seemingly unwilling to let the other one go.

It’s me who breaks away first. I scrub my face and dry my eyes. Dad grabs a tissue from a box on his desk and blows his nose.

“Would you like me to organize a DNA test? Just in case your mother was mistaken, and before you answer, know that whatever the result, it willneverchange how I feel about you.”

I have to swallow several times before the lump in my throat clears. “I’d appreciate that, Dad.”

He nods. “What do you want to do about George?”

I’m taken aback that he’d ask me, but I shouldn’t be surprised. This is my amazing father all over. “What doyouwant to do, Dad? He’s your brother.”

His eyes grow fierce, revealing a side of him rarely seen. The side that’s made grown men crap their pants with one carefully crafted look. “He’s no brother of mine.”

“Nor uncle of mine.” Let alone fucking father. He’s a vile rapist.

A fresh bout of hate spills into my veins. I fist my hands, the urge to punch him and punch him until his skull caves in engulfing me. I’m drowning in the need to avenge my mother, Annabel, my father, and myself.

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