Page 13 of Little Stranger

Me: Not when they can see.

Malachi shifts beside me, and I glance over to see him pull his flannel off and drop it between us, and my breath hitches as he pulls my hand under the garment and laces our fingers together, our parents none the wiser as my cheeks heat and my throat goes dry.

He squeezes his fingers around mine, and I squeeze back, averting my eyes when Mom turns down the radio. “Did you pack the sandwiches I left on the table?” she asks me.

“Yeah. They’re in Malachi’s bag.”

“And the toilet roll?”

“Yes,” Dad says. “We have everything. Stop overthinking.”

“But we’re so far from home. What if we get an emergency foster?”

“Then we drive back. We’ll have a phone signal, so don’t start panicking about that either, baby.”

He always calls her baby, and it always catches me off guard. I don’t remember much of my life before coming to the Vizes, but the namebabyalways makes me uncomfortable, and I think it could be a trigger for me, so I’m glad I don’t have memories past being afraid of the dark and the yelling.

Mom sighs then turns to look at my brother. “Where were you last night?”

He stares right through her, not letting go of my hand.

When Mom knows she’s not going to get any response, she rolls her eyes and looks forward again. “It’s like talking to a wall sometimes. He wasn’t in his room.”

She turns again. “Were you out with that blonde?”

I flinch and try to let go of his hand, but he grips me for dear life, ignoring Mom.

“No, he didn’t ever go out with her, remember?” Dad reminds her. “She was too afraid of him.”

Relief floods through me, and I look over at Malachi, who’s studying my reaction.

“You don’t need to be an asshole to them,” I say under my breath. “Where did you go last night anyway?” I lower my voice. “Before you came to my bed.”

I miss the contact as soon as he pulls his hand away and signs,I was out with my friends. I told you that already.

Since Dad turns the volume on the radio up, I sign back,Did you have fun?

Not really.

Why?I ask.

He smirks and looks away again, pushing his hand under the flannel between us—waiting. His smile grows when I put mine under too, and we hold hands in silence, Mom singing along to an Isabel LaRosa song.

He’s typing on his phone again, and mines dings.

Malachi: You got mad. Why?

Me: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Malachi: Was my baby sister jealous?

I grimace and shut my screen off—then glance over to see him silently laughing, smiling, his dimples poking inwards.

I mouth,Asshole, when our eyes connect.

I’m not sure when I fell asleep, but I jump awake when the car comes to an abrupt stop in the middle of nowhere, and Malachi’s thumb is running over the top of my hand, now atop his thigh, the flannel still hiding our hands from Mom and Dad.

We let go, and he signs,I heard you snoring. Even over Mom’s ridiculous singing.

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