Page 81 of Little Liar
She attaches a video, and the five-second clip, which has been taken from Molly’s window, shows Malachi across the street from the Vize manor, smoking, while sitting on his bike.
I open my chat with Malachi and type. All my messages have been ignored since I came to work earlier. He’s not speaking to me for some reason, and I hate it.
Me: Molly said you’re outside the manor. Is everything okay?
He reads it, but no dots appear to tell me he’s typing back a reply. Ten minutes pass, and I accept he’s not going to respond. I try to call, but he hangs up on the second ring.
With my heart beating hard in my chest, confused and terrified, I shake my head and type one last message.
Me: Tell me what’s wrong. If we’re going to make this work, we need to communicate, Malachi.
How hypocritical of me—I’m keeping secrets from him, yet I’m demanding he reply to a text message and throw words like that at him.
An hour later, the door of my office opens without the person announcing themselves, and the prickling sensation at the back of my neck spreads all over me, mixing with the anticipation of the silence and footsteps that pull my flat lips into a smile.
Everything was fine when he dropped me off. He kissed me then went off to do his normal morning exercise. A run in the woods, boxing in the garage, and some other workouts he does in the yard.
For some reason, I’m not allowed in the backyard. And if I do go out there, he’s in a rush to get me either into the woodland or back into the house.
I type away on my computer, pretending I’m not paying attention and that my body doesn’t instantly become alive and aware of Malachi closing the door behind him. Feigning indifference, I act as though I’m not in the least bit affected by him—I keep my eyes on the screen, my fingers moving over the keyboard.
His quiet is always so loud to me.
I love it.
My breathing grows heavy as he walks to the glass panel that gives me a view of everyone else in the office—they’re all at their desks, working, none the wiser as Malachi pulls the string to snap the blinds shut, hiding us from their potential attention.
Still feeling his lips on me from this morning, I shift in my seat, swallow, and trap my bottom lip between my teeth.
“Are you here to kidnap me again, big brother?”
He doesn’t look at me as he turns and walks towards me, to my desk, and snatches up my letter opener. He flips it in his hand a few times as he stalks the room, changing the energy around us as he circles my desk until he’s behind me.
Just when I think he’s going to kiss me or speak or break this tension, I gasp as the cold, sharp edge of the letter opener presses to my throat.
His other hand fists at my hair, yanking my head back so I’m staring at the ceiling, his hard face glaring down at me.
No words pass between us; only our breaths can be heard in the room. I want to ask him what’s wrong—even when he’s quiet, he’s the loudest.
My mouth parts to ask him, but he grits his teeth and yanks me to my feet, the blade nicking at my skin but not enough to hurt—the sting follows me as he bends me over the wooden desk, removing the sharpness from my throat and stabbing it through the desk.
My eyes widen as I look forward—he’s stabbed through my sleeves, trapping me in place as he pushes off me and starts unbuckling his belt.
“Tell me why you kept it from me,” he demands, the leather of his belt snapping as he pulls it from the loops of his pants.
“If you want me to fuck this,” he says, slapping my pussy from behind and making me flinch, “then you’ll tell me, Olivia.”
Gasping, I ask, “Tell you what? What did I keep from you?”
He spanks me so hard, the pain vibrates through me.
“Mason is dead.”
I bite my lip, refusing to speak.
He kicks my legs together then wraps his belt around my thighs and fastens it tight to keep them shut.
“He died nearly ten years ago.” His voice is shaky. His emotions are beating him up. “The same night I was arrested, he fucking crashed his bike and died.”
