“But—”
“So help me, Fletcher, I have never been so angry with you. Go to your room now!” she screams.
He gives me one last death stare and stomps up the stairs.
“I’ll get some ice,” Claire says. “I have to go out to the garage freezer. Back in a moment.” She disappears, and the youngest kid comes and sits beside me. So close that he’s nearly sitting on top of me. I edge myself away from him.
I look around the house in horror. The furniture is all moved to the side, and there are huge-ass fans going, facing down to the floor. The carpet has huge wet patches . . . what happened there? Are they washing out a bloodstain?
The television is blaring a really loud game show, and there is some kind of art project sprawled over the coffee table. It’s messy and chaotic . . . not what I expected at all. Pain sears through my ankle, and I wince.
A cat jumps up on the couch. It’s big and ugly, and it comes over and tries to sit on me. Eww. I lean away from it.
“Muff. Get down,” the kid says.
I look at him. “Your cat is called Muff?”
He smiles and nods proudly. “He’s naughty. He pees on things.” The cat jumps onto the ottoman and begins to lick my foot. I jerk it away. Ugh.
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
Good grief.
The middle kid comes out and stands in front of us. “I’m watching you,” he whispers. He slices his finger across his neck as he narrows his eyes.
Huh?
Fuck’s sake . . . she’s breeding serial killers here.
I begin to feel faint.
“My name is Patrick,” the little kid says.
“Hi, Patrick,” I reply as I keep my eye on the serial-killer kid, and I gesture to him. “What’s your name?” I ask.
“Your worst nightmare,” he whispers darkly in a monster voice.
I frown . . . what the hell is up with this kid? “What a stupid name,” I whisper back.
“His name is Harry,” Patrick says.
“Yeah, well, Harry is psychotic,” I reply with my eyes locked on Harry. I tap my temple. “Weirdo,” I mouth.
Harry makes crazy eyes and puts his hands around his own throat and begins to choke himself as I watch. He makes choking noises and falls to the floor and then plays dead.
What the . . . ?
I stare at his lifeless body on the floor.
I’m not even joking; this kid is fucking deranged.
Claire comes rushing in from a room at the back. “Oh my God, Tris. I didn’t have an
y ice, so we will have to use a bag of peas.”
She places them on my foot. My ankle is now the size of a football and throbbing like a bitch.
“Get up, Harry,” Claire says as she tends to me. He gets up and runs out of the room, and I stare after him. I don’t trust that kid. Something is seriously off here.