Page 121 of The Cruelest Chaos

He screamed, though. He screamed all the way down, until suddenly, he just…didn’t.

But she was still coming.

When she saw he was gone, she stopped, eyes darting around the balcony as if he was hiding under the table or the chairs. I was against the edge, the railing digging into my back, my arms thrown wide, gripping the cool metal.

Brooklin.

I thought about Brooklin, because she would know what to do. Brooklin would’ve never let this happen. Brooklin was always mouthy. Always loud. She was younger than me, the middle child, but she…she would’ve punched this woman right in the face.

I was breathing hard when she stopped looking for him. When she realized the screams we’d heard, the thud afterward…when she realized he was gone, she screamed, too.

She was all violent hands and locked closets and taunting threats and neglect, but she didn’t want to kill us. No, that would ruin the fun.

And I’d just ruined hers.

Her wide brown eyes connected with mine as she stepped closer.

“Maverick,” she scolded me, her chest heaving, dark blooms of sweat under her arms as she fisted her hands on her hips. I could smell her, even with a couple of feet between us. She smelled like sweat and baby powder, and I wanted to vomit.

“Maverick, what did you do to your brother?”

My mouth fell open.

My stomach churned.

My pants were already wet and cold against my skin, and I couldn’t help it. I let go again, and it trailed hot down my leg.

Her eyes followed the trail, the puddle on the balcony.

Her thin lips twisted into a smile. “Aren’t you too old for that, Maverick?”

I couldn’t move. I was frozen in place as she stepped closer.

“You know what that means, don’t you?”

I did. I did know what it meant. It meant I’d go back in that closet, and my brother’s body…

I closed my eyes. I didn’t know what else to do. I screwed them up tight, but all I could see behind my closed eyelids was the television in her bedroom. When I wasn’t locked in the closet, when Malachi was taking his nap, I was in her bed and she was in control of the TV.

I saw strange things. Whips and chains and women screaming and angry men and I saw things I didn’t think I was supposed to see. I saw a woman gagging on a man’s penis, saw her eyes full of tears, saw her gasping for breath.

I saw her get sick.

And my nanny laughed. She laughed, and she watched me watching. And one day, she said she wanted to act out what we saw. On me.

We did. I had been eight then, when that started.

It was just a game, she said.

Just a game.

I didn’t complain. I was frozen then like I was standing outside on that balcony. Because if it was me, it wouldn’t be Brooklin when she came home from tennis camp or ballet or wherever she’d been sent to. It wouldn’t be her, and it wouldn’t be Malachi.

Malachi could eat fruit snacks and take naps and laugh and watch cartoons and build forts with me. Malachi wouldn’t get hurt.

My nanny touched me then, her hand against my cheek, soft and kind. My eyes flew open, and she crouched down so she was on my level.

“You killed your brother.”