Page 39 of Vicious Behaviors

“Seemed like as good a place as any,” I mutter.

“Funny.” She laughs, but the smile slips from her face as she glances down at the books spread out on the table in front of me. She reads the titles aloud with a raised brow as she moves them about on the table. “Understanding Schizophrenia. Living with Dissociative Identity Disorder. The Divided Self. An Unquiet Mind.Are you taking a psych class I don’t know about, or is this your idea of light reading?” she asks, picking up the last book and flipping through it.

I don’t answer. Instead, I get up from my seat and gently take the book out of her hands. She frowns, but I ignore it, gathering the rest of the stack.

When I was old enough to realize I wasn’t like everyone else, I started researching on my own, hoping that somewhere in these books I’d find an answer. A cure. A way to cast the devil out of me for good.

By the time I was seventeen, I had read every book about the subject in the Chicago Public Library. When that wasn’t enough, I started sneaking into university libraries, like UChicago. I’ve downloaded audiobooks, and my Kindle app is packed with titles on the subject. If I could get my hands on it and it was even remotely relevant, I’d read it.

So far, none of it has helped. Not in any meaningful way.

“You shouldn’t be reading this stuff, Mar. You need to talk to someone. A real professional. A book just won’t cut it.”

I snort. “You sound like Mom.”

“I don’t care. And don’t you dare tell her I said this, but… she’s right.”

“Stella,” I grumble, slipping on my jacket and heading toward the checkout counter.

“What? She is.”

“No, she’s not,” I say under my breath. “First of all, she has no idea what I’m really going through, and secondly, you know as well as I do that people like us don’t do therapy.”

She lets out a loud exhale, frustration clear in her face. “That’s a stupid rule.”

“It’s a rule that keeps our family safe. It’s not stupid.”

“I’m sure Dad would say yes if you asked him.”

“I’m not asking.”

If she only knew that our father was the one who made it very clear I couldn’t seek help, not the traditional kind anyway, she wouldn’t say such a thing. And the day he showed me whythat was, I understood his reluctance. Fuck. I even agreed with him.

No shrinks. No therapist. Ever. I’ll deal with the monster my way. I’ve been doing it for the past twelve years now. I can handle it.

“Are you done with classes for the day?” I ask, shifting the subject.

“I am.” She rolls her eyes, seeing right through me.

“Good. I’ll walk you to your car.”

“Didn’t bring one.” She shrugs. “Mine got totaled, remember? Too riddled with bullet holes to save.”

How can I forget? The night Stella, Lucky, and Frankie got abducted by theBratvais still very fresh in my mind, for more than one reason.

I shake the image of Father McDonagh’s dead eyes looking back at me.

“You know we’ve got a whole fleet of cars you could use until you get a new one, right?” I counter, needing to stay in the present, instead of letting myself get trapped by past mistakes.

“What do you think I’ve been driving these last couple of months?” She laughs. “I just don’t think pulling up to campus in a Bentley, Ferrari, or some bulletproof SUV with tinted windows exactly screams out that I’m just your run-of-the-mill college senior. I’m trying to blend in, remember?”

Right. Like Stella could ever blend in.

With that flame-red hair and her take-no-prisoners attitude, there’s no way the student body at UChicago hasn’t noticed her in the four years she’s been studying here.

“So how’d you get to school?”

“Like any regular student.” She smirks. “I Ubered.”