Page 239 of Wicked Brutal

“Not now.” There is no anger in it. Only fear. She looks toward the foyer even though Dad’s car is gone. Like he might still hear us. Like he always can.

Then I remember what she said before he came home. The agreement. “What were you trying to tell me?” Her eyes find mine. “About Victor. About Dad. You said there are things I don’t understand.”

“Alison, don’t.”

“What does Victor get?” She looks toward the foyer again. Then at Tobias. Something changes in her face.

“Your father keeps everything.”

I go still. “What does that mean?”

Mom’s lips press together. “Go upstairs with your brother.”

“Mom.”

“Please.”

I stare at her. She has already said too much. I can see it. So I take Tobias upstairs. He is quiet until we reach his room. Then I see the backpack on his bed. He walks over and opens it.

“What are you doing?”

“Packing.”

My heart sinks. “For what?”

“For when you leave.” He starts pulling clothes from his dresser. Two shirts. His pajamas. Then he grabs his stuffed frog from the bed and shoves that inside too.

“Toby.” He doesn’t look at me. “If I’m good, can I come?”

My eyes burn. I sit on the edge of his bed. “Come here.” He does. I take his face carefully between my hands, avoiding the angry red mark Dad left across his cheek. “You don’t have to be good for me.”

His eyebrows pinch together. “What?”

“You don’t have to earn me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to listen perfectly. You don’t have to stop crying. You don’t have to make Dad happy. You don’t have to make me happy either.” His eyes fill again. “You are my brother. There is nothing you can do that will ever make me stop loving you.”

“Even when you marry Victor?”

My eyes fall to the ring. Hours ago, it felt like a claim. Now it feels like a countdown. I look back at him. “Especially then.” H

e climbs into my lap. I hold him until the crying stops. Until his breathing slows. Until he falls asleep against me.

Then I take pictures. His cheek. His arm. The fingerprints already beginning to darken beneath his skin. I take pictures of my arms. My face. My lip.

Then I go back downstairs.

Mom is still in the kitchen. She hasn’t cleaned any of it up — the glass, the broken frame, all of it exactly where it fell. She’s just standing at the sink with both hands braced on the edge, staring at nothing.

When she hears me, she straightens fast, the way she always does, and reaches for the color she keeps in her voice. “You should be with your brother.”

“He’s asleep.” I stop beside her. “Mom.” She won’t look at me. “Let me see.”

“Ally.”

“Please.”