Page 77 of The Beast's Heart

“The social worker probably knows already but chose to withhold that little fact from me. Fuck.”

What I want to ask is if Adam would have still taken Mal if he’d known. What I say instead is, “He returned it of his own free will.”

“You don’t have to defend him.”

“Someone has to.”

He looks up at me again, features going soft.

You were hired to do a job, Mr. Belle. I’m concerned that you might not be up for it.He once said.

He was right, but not in the way I thought. I was up for teaching them, I was up for dealing with their tantrums and learning challenges. But there’s a knowledge that sits heavy between us now, in his gaze and in my heart. Mal isn’t my son and ultimately his fate isn’t up to me. And that? I’m not sure I’m up for that at all.

“Oh Belle,” Adam says, and he touches my cheek again. Then pulls back quickly, as if catching himself in the act of doing something illicit. “Do you want to go back to sleep?”

I don’t think I could, as exhausted as I still feel. I’m very aware that I’m still in his clothes, probably streaked with mud and dirt. I need to wash before the children see me. “Could I use your shower? It’s fine if you don’t feel comfortable with that.”

“By all means, please.”

31

ADAM

While Belle’s in my shower (in my shower… no, stop it, you monster. You have no right.), I take a walk over to the east wing.

I expect to find the children still at their game in the playroom, but Lily-Iris informs me she thought they’d had too much screen time and she sent them to their rooms to read or study. I approve of this choice. It also makes what I have to do easier.

I rap on Mal’s door and wait for the, “Come in,” before I enter. He’s sitting on his bed with a notebook on his knees, sketching or writing. He looks up as the door shuts behind me and his eyes fly wide with panic. He goes completely still.

“Hello Malakai.”

His little chest heaves with terror as he whispers, “Hi,” or something like it.

I hold my hands out in front of me. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

He swallows. His fist tightens around his pencil. Better cut to the chase. I withdraw the cigarette case from my pocket. Mal’s gaze shoots to it and he wriggles backwards up the bed, untilhis back hits one of the colorful new pillows that’s against the headboard. He’s ready to bolt.

“Hold on, I just want to talk to you.”

When Mal first arrived here, I remember finding the contrast between his black hair and pale skin so stark as to be alarming. I only realize now, as the blood drains from his face, how healthy he’s started to look in the time he’s been in Belle’s care.

“Mal,” I say, putting extra effort into keeping my voice gentle. I’m not usually very good at that, but now it’s more important than ever. “Stealing is wrong. And you know that, don’t you?”

He nods. His mouth moves but he doesn’t manage to produce a sound.

“And we’re going to talk to your therapist about this. We’re going to address this. But…” I hold out the case to him. “I’d like you to have this.”

His eyes dart to the silver case, then back to me. He’s sensing a trap but he’s not sure what it is.

With a sigh, I place the case on his bedside table and sit at the foot of his bed. “I never told you kids about my childhood, did I? I don’t think I’ve told you much about myself at all.”

Mal is still all bunched up, as far as he can physically get away from me without pressing right through the wall.

“I’m not the type of person who likes to make excuses. I believe that we may not be able to choose our circumstances, but we can choose how we react to them. That’s how I’ve gotten as far as I have in life. But I’m starting to realize that maybe our circumstances sometimes do determine how we react to things. Am I making any sense to you?”

I look to him for an answer. Is he even listening? Or is he too terrified by my proximity?

“I think so,” he says. Soon his voice will break, but now it’s still small and sweet.

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