Page 8 of Little Stranger

She nibbles her lip and flattens her lips. “Malachi has… issues. As well as all the trauma from his life before coming here that triggered his mutism, he isn’t mentally normal. Have you ever heard of ASPD?”

“Sure, but Malachi isn’t a psychopath or anything. He’s just quiet and has a temper.”

Mom shakes her head. “He was diagnosed at fifteen, sweetheart. And… your father and I think that, maybe, we should ask him to leave now that he’s nineteen and at an age to support himself.”

My teeth crush together as I throw my duvet off. “No,” I force out. “If he goes, I go.”

“Don’t be stupid, Olivia. Why would you do that? Malachi needs space and no restrictions, and if he’s living under our roof, he needs to abide by our rules. Your father can’t even be in the same room with him without feeling uncomfortable. You can’t leave—you have… ties to our family. You’re a Vize.”

“I promise you, Mom, if Malachi goes, Iwillleave with him.”

“Very well.” Her shoulders hunch, and she gazes at the floor for a long minute. “If he messes up once more, I don’t care what the repercussions are. Malachi will be told to leave. We raised him, we put clothes on his back, and filled his stomach with food. We already did our job. He’s grown up now and will not bring shame to this family.”

“Is that how you feel about me too? You done your job by raising me, so you no longer need to act like a parent? You’ll just sell me off to marry someone else’s son to secure more money for yourselves?”

“God, no, Olivia. You’re my daughter and always will be. I’m not afraid of you, and I don’t feel uneasy bringing new fosters in with you here. But Malachi? He seriously assaulted someone just for talking to you. What will happen if a new foster wants to be your friend?”

Burning-hot tears slip down my cheeks. “Malachi is your son.”

“He is, and I love him; we all do, but he’s dangerous and unhinged and unpredictable. He can’t feel remorse or empathy or regret or even love someone properly. He’s a weapon.”

“Get out,” I grit. “Get out and never speak aboutyoursonlike that again.”

“I’m just looking out for everyone, sweetheart. If you can speak to Malachi and talk to him about medication and therapy, then we can help him not end up in prison—or, worse, dead from picking a fight with the wrong person. He didn’t even consider the cameras or witnesses when he smashed that poor boy’s head into the wall.”

She tries to place a hand on mine, and I pull away. “I was speaking to Adam’s mother on the phone. He’s willing to go for dinner with you this weekend. I can rearrange your date with Parker to the weekend after.”

Through my teeth, I grit, “How considerate of him.”

“We can go dress shopping tomorrow. Pick you something nice and flattering.”

I don’t dignify her with a response as she leaves the room, and I hug my knees to my chest, hearing her words over and over again. Part of what she said is right: Malachi is a little… unhinged at times, but he isn’t the monster she’s trying to paint him as.

Taking out my laptop, I look up “ASPD,” checking forums and medical reports, and the more I read, the more I realize that despite everything I feel towards Malachi—caring about him, wanting to spend time with him, and getting butterflies when we sleep in the same bed—he might not feel the same way about me.

But then I inwardly smack myself, because he’s my brother, so obviously he’s not going to feel the same way I do. He’s possessive of me because I’m his sister, not because he wants to fuck me into next week.

How does he see life? If he can’t feel certain emotions, then what’s it like to live in his shoes? Does he even care about living?

No matter what traits and descriptors say about Malachi’s diagnosis, whether he’s a psychopath or a sociopath or something else, he’s my big brother, and I willneverwalk away from him.

Hours later, when everyone is asleep, I climb out of my window and balance across the ledge to his side of the manor. When I first did this years ago, I was terrified of the drop. Heights and I don’t mix, but I’ve grown used to this one.

He never locks his balcony, so I slide across the door and slip in.

“Archangel” by MEJKO plays from his speaker, low enough that no one else in the house will be able to hear it. The clanking of metal, the gusts of breath he pushes out each time he raises the barbell above his head while laid out on the weight bench, the glistening sweat all over his chest and face—the combination sends a shiver through me, and I stay silent, watching, just like he does when he sees me cheer out in the yard.

He drops the barbell back onto the bench stand and sits up, panting silently and sweating and rubbing the towel across his soaked face. He’s only wearing shorts, so his abs are on show, glittering with sweat as he gets to his feet, tossing the towel down and running his fingers through his already disheveled hair.

He looks to the side, his eyes clashing with mine, and I fidget my fingers behind my back. “Hi. I couldn’t sleep.”

He towers over me, his chest rising and falling as he closes the distance between us, stopping in front of me and reaching for one of my plaits. He slips off the hair tie and unravels my hair, rubbing the strands between his fingers and bringing them to his nose—inhaling and closing his eyes.

Normality for us went out the window a while ago, because I like when he does this. It calms him, and for some reason, it calms me too to know that. I tried to change my strawberry-scented shampoo once, and he threw my new one in the trash and filled my bathroom unit with a supply of the one he loves.

“Why did you do that today?” I whisper, my voice faltering as I look up at him through my lashes. That towering height, mixed with his muscles and dimples… I hate the fact that he’s my brother. Why can’t he just be a friend’s brother, or someone I met by chance?

I’m starting to realize that I might have a crush on Malachi—the world needs to eat me up and spit me into space becausewhat the hell?

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