Very Bad Things (Briarwood Academy 1)

He staggered toward me until only a few feet separated us. “Ah, don’t look like that. I’m not going to hurt you. It’s just . . . I told you to call me, and you didn’t. What else did you think I would do?”

He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket and lit one, his long fingers cupping the light so it didn’t blow out in the wind. And still I couldn’t make my legs work.

“See, you forced me to come here. You did this,” he snapped, his voice escalating at the end.

I blinked, the familiar tone of his voice grating over my skin, making me shake, making me want to vomit. My muscles drew up, preparing for his attack, for the cold, rough hands he’d use on my body. Blood rushed to my head, and my heart pounded erratically. I bent over and grabbed my stomach, fighting the panic attack I felt coming.

“Is that anyway to greet a brother?” he whined, whipping off his leather jacket and tossing it to the ground at his feet. He kicked it out of his path. I quaked inside at the action, my body begging for air, concentrating on breathing evenly. God help me, I needed control. I had to be able to fight back.

“Did you really think you could move out of our house? Get away from her? You can’t,” he said, laughing a weird sound, like his insides were all twisted up. “I moved to Houston, and I can’t. We’re both fucked up, Nora. We need each other.” He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up the sleeves of his designer shirt methodically, a resigned expression on his face. On his forearm, I saw the jagged lines of his scar and remembered that horrible last time when he’d picked the lock to my bedroom. How he’d slipped inside, humming a little song under his breath, like he was fine, like he was normal, like it was an everyday thing to want to hurt your sister.

“I told you and told you to call me, but you didn’t. I sent you the pictures to show you that I don’t care anymore who knows. And you didn’t answer me, Nora. Not one time. How much trouble is it to call me?” He fiddled around in his trouser pockets and pulled out a length of rope. “Can’t have you trying to cut me now, can I?” he smirked, slapping the rope against his leg.

I stared at him numbly and fell to my knees, my legs useless like wet noodles.

“This is her fault. She never loved us, but I’m going to make us all better. Fix it so that she can’t mess with us anymore, make us into animals.”

“I’m not an animal,” I managed to choke out. “I got away. I’m not bad. I’m good, and I’ll be happy some day.”

He roared with jarring laughter, tossing his head back to the dark sky. “Never knew you were such a jokester, sis,” he said darkly, looking down at me, his brown eyes filled with emptiness.

I bowed my head and started praying.

“I’m going to take you far away from all this,” he said, waving the rope in the air. “Where we can be a perfect family, just me and you.”

“Where?” I wheezed out, recognizing the desolation on his face for what it was. Hadn’t I been close to that point once? Hadn’t I dreamed of ending it all?

He bent over, got in my face, and wagged his finger. “Ah, such a curious little girl.”

I flinched at the stench of stale alcohol on his breath. I licked my lips, bracing myself. “Why . . . why don’t you come closer so I can give you a hug, brother,” I panted, my right hand reaching behind my back, feeling for the dropped purse. “I . . . I missed you, too,” I said, my usually nimble fingers thick with fear as I eased the strap closer and closer.

He kneeled down in front of me, a surprised but satisfied smile on his gaunt face. He kissed my forehead tenderly. “I knew you’d see it my way. We’re the only ones who can fix this,” he said, his hands caressing my cheeks and then squeezing so hard that the strands of the rope ground into my temple.

I felt a tear ease down my face . . . and I think I cried not only for myself, but maybe for him, too. He was sick. He was my brother, and at one point I’d loved him. He’s the person who’d told me my first knock-knock joke and taught me how to swim. I closed my eyes, my head running through a distant memory, one of Finn and me riding our bikes together through Turtle Creek one Saturday afternoon. I’d gotten a flat that day, and he’d given me his to ride while he trudged through hills and rocky trails to get my bike home. But that brother was long gone, and I didn’t recognize the creature that had taken his place.

Dimly, I heard a voice far away yelling my name and then a rhythmic thumping sound. Someone was coming, but it was too late. This moment had been written in stone from the time I’d seen him at the open house.

There was no turning back now.

Finn’s neck twitched to see who was coming. I reached in my bag and then whipped my arm back around to the front, pushing the knife in, watching the blood as it trickled down his throat. I remembered all the times I had bled for him. He tensed and wanted to move, but I had him by the collar, my hands tight, unwilling to release him.

“You won’t hurt me again,” I breathed out, oddly calm now. “Just a millimeter more, Finn, and you’ll die right here.”

“Nora, put it down,” a soft voice said, pulling me back to the world. I blinked over at a pale Leo who stood beside me, gazing at the knife I had pressed to Finn’s jugular.

I shook my head. “No, I made up my mind.”

Leo came closer, holding his hands up. “Look, I’m calling the police. Let them take care of him, Nora. Please.”