Page 41 of The Beast's Heart

My stomach goes cold and all thoughts of Belle’s gentle smile fly from my mind. What do I even say to that? “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

“You don’t believe in ghosts?”

Oh, I believe in ghosts. The ghost that shivers across my senses every time I enter what was meant to beourwing. The ghost of deeds done that shouldn’t have been, of things said that I wish I could take back, of my past self who I despise. The ghost of my father’s hard face and my mother’s indifference. And that first punch I threw, the one that started everything. I know all about ghosts.

“Nope.”

“How did he die?” Mal thwacks at a small bush, scattering dew. There’s that candor again.

I pack my emotions into the little box where they belong and answer simply, “He was ill.”

“I guess he didn’t like phone calls.”

I’m grateful that we’re back on the topic of the manor’s location. “He didn’t like people.”

“Then why’s the house so big?”

“He wanted to adopt and raise a whole horde of kids.”

Mal laughs. “Childrenarepeople.”

“People are children who’ve made strings of bad decisions and who’ve been corrupted by society.”

Mal stops walking and stares at me. A beat passes, then he swallows and drops his gaze to his feet.

Dammit. See, Belle? This is why this is a bad idea.I pull out my phone and check for signal. One, lonely, bar.

I try the electrician and get through. When I ask his advice on how to fix the problem, he tells me in no uncertain terms that I am not to go near the power line as there are thousands of volts of electricity running through it and I will likely die.

Not as discouraging a prospect right now as he might think.

It’s a long wait for the lineman and pole crew, who need to travel from town to make the repairs. Mal hankers down in the grass on the side of the road and keeps his own counsel. If Belle were here, he’d know what to say to the boy.

I pace at first, then eventually settle beside him. “You can go back to the house if you like.”

He pokes the ground with his stick. “After we go back to social services, are you going to foster more kids?”

So that’s what he’s been chewing over. Guilt doesn’t so much twist in my gut as stab me.

I watch him, his intense focus on that stick. “I’m not planning on it.”

He glances at me, furtive. “Why did you choose me?”

These questions were so much easier to answer on paper. A number of truths fly through my mind.You were available. You were convenient. I felt sorry for you.

Now, faced with the reality of him, the one I give is, “The social worker chose you.”

He flinches.Wrong answer.

I sigh and wipe my hand across my face. “That’s not true. I don’t know why I said that. I read your file and I liked what I saw.”

He purses his lips. “You’re not a very good liar.”

“I’m an excellent liar. It was my job, you know?”

“Your job was beating people up.”

“Pretendingto beat people up.”

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