Chapter 1
Malachi
17 Years Old
Myfeetslamagainstthe cracked sidewalk, each step a warning shot rattling through my bones. The air reeks with blood, sweat, and stale smoke that curls thick into my lungs. My breath tears through my throat, jagged and raw, as the house comes into view. The front door hangs open just a crack, a gaping mouth poised to swallow me whole.
No. My pulse stutters. That sliver of black is enough to spike cold dread in my gut. I stop short of the porch, chest heaving, ears straining, the world narrowing to the muffled static of being underwater.
“You fucking bitch!”
The words explode from inside, a gunshot tearing through the silence. My father’s voice is ragged with fury. I’m moving before I can think. My hands hit the door, but something’s wedged behind it—heavy, unmoving. I throw my shoulder into it once, twice as the wood creaks and groans, then finally, it gives way.
What’s on the other side nearly drops me to my knees.
Matt, my older brother, is sprawled across the entryway floor, limbs tangled in the shape of a broken marionette, a crimson pool oozing beneath his skull. Blood inches outward in slow, horrifying strokes, each one telling the story of what happened here.
My knees buckle. My stomach twists into a knot so tight I can’t breathe. The room swims, making the walls tilt and the edges blur while my hearing tunnels into a distant roar.
But my father’s voice cuts through again, a vicious snarl deeper in the house, and it jolts me back into motion.
I shouldn’t have left. Not today. Not with the way Dad was acting this morning.
I scan the living room with frantic, jerking movements. Relief crashes into me when I find them. Jared is crouched behind the couch, arms banded tightly around Amelia. She’s pressed into his chest, her tiny body shaking, her face hidden in the safety of her brother’s shirt. Jared’s hands tremble where they cling to her, as if he’s holding on to life itself.
His eyes meet mine. So wide. So full of terror, they’ve lost all trace of a child’s innocence. I raise a finger to my lips, mouthing one word—quiet.
Jared nods, barely, his mouth a tight, pale line. He tightens his arms around Amelia as her small fingers fist his shirt. She’s silent, but the tremble in her shoulders screams loud enough for both of them.
Stay hidden. Stay small. Stay alive.
I don’t give myself time to cry. Time to break down. I move, rounding the corner into the kitchen, then everything inside me shatters.
He’s on top of her. My father. His knees straddling Mom’s hips, a predator pinning its prey, his fist crashing into her face over and over with sick, wet thuds. And the sound will never leave me. The crack of bone. The slap of flesh. It’s carved into my brain, leaving a scar etched deep beneath the surface.
My feet feel rooted, but my hands? They’re already moving. One reaches behind me, sliding across the counter until my fingers find cold steel. The knife feels heavy in my grip, too real, too final.
I come in from the side, and the knife sinks into his neck. At first, he doesn’t react. Doesn’t even flinch. He’s so high, so strung out, that reality hasn’t caught up to him. But the second the blood starts, something inside me fractures wide open.
I rip the blade free. Blood splashes across my face—hot, metallic, blinding.My hands go numb, the knife slippery, the world slipping sideways. I stab again. Blurred shapes. Muffled screaming. The pounding of my own heartbeat drowning everything else out.
Again.
And again.
Until he slumps forward. Dead weight. I shove at him with my foot, rolling his body off my mother. His eyes are open, glassy, and void. For the first time in my life, there’s no threat behind them. Just... nothing. He’s gone. I made sure of it.
There’s no room for softness. Not for me. Not ever again.
I drop the knife with a clatter and fall to my knees beside Mom. My hands shake as I press them to her chest, her neck, her face, anywhere I can reach, desperate to feel breath, warmth, something.
Nothing.
I choke on a sob, pressing my forehead to hers. She’s still warm, but not for long. My brain screams at me to do something, but I never learned CPR. I skipped school and never listened. I thought there would always be time to learn, to fix things.
If I had stayed home, maybe Matt would be alive. Maybe she would be too.
I drag myself across the blood-slick floor toward Matt. His body is twisted, one arm flung wide, palm open, reaching for help that never came. I don’t have to touch him to know—he’s gone too. His blood has already gone cold.
