Page 3 of Under the Bed

“Get up, Son,” Dad growls at him.

Scarlett’s hand is already on Kaleb’s shoulder, demanding that he rise.

He listens to no one.

She still tries.

That’s what she’s being paid for.

Fighting for his freedom sure isn’t it. Kaleb and I watched an episode ofLaw & Orderthe other day. While I didn’t understand everything on the show, I know it didn’t look like this:

“Bad people who embarrass our family should be kept locked away,” Daddy said. Astrid cried louder. I heard them in their room. “Fine, not in prison. A psychiatric hospital. That fiend. He’s bad for our image.”

At that, she stopped crying.

I couldn’t. Was Daddy right? Was I friends with a bad person for five months? I didn’t think so. But my father wouldn’t stop screaming at me that I’m stupid and that Kaleb will hurt me.

No.

No.

Maybe?

A tear slips past my eye, rolling down my cheek. Scarlett, the lawyer, whispers something to Kaleb and he finally gets up.

From where I stand, I see his solemn face. His dark brown hair has been cut short on the sides and is longer on top. His golden eyes stare straight ahead. His sharp jaw is clenched tight and his full lips are pinched shut. The muscles in his arms and shoulders stretch his deep blue suit.

He did a terrible, terrible thing.

Ripping the hearts of the two kids who attacked—assaulted, the detective who interviewed me called it at first, before she said it was nothing—me.

Hiding two of their chopped fingers in a shoebox in my closet was weird. People don’t do that. Then he told me it was my gift.Our little secret.

It didn’t seem like a bad thing at the time. Maybe I was wrong about that. I feel like I’ve been wrong about everything lately.

A few people called my stepbrother a monster when we walked into court today. They didn’t get close—not them, not the photographers. Daddy’s security held them back and smashed their cameras.

What he couldn’t stop was the police raiding our home. He did nothing when so many policemen and women and squad cars arrived at our house to drag Kaleb away less than two weeks ago.

A fifteen-year-old boy.

We have footage of him leaving the scene. His hands were bloody. We have fingerprints on their hearts and the cleaver, Mr. and Mrs. Talbot. We have a warrant for it. For his DNA as well.

The boy is a monster.

No.

Dad repeats it, though. He’s just like the people who waited outside for us to arrive today. Even Kaleb’s mom didn’t visit him in his cell. She said it was too long of a drive from our home in Medina. It wasn’t. I know she lied.

He isn’t a monster. Can’t be.

Yes, he’s taller than everyone in the courthouse. Larger too. They avoid looking him in the eye.

I’ve always been grateful for that. He’s a wall, protecting me whenever Dad yells at me. Kaleb is the reason I haven’t been slapped for the past five months.

We’ve been spending hours together. Just me and my big brother.

Unlike Dad, I don’t mind at all when Kaleb’s wearing the white mask I clutch between my fingers now. The one with the fake brown hair that’s a lot messier than his is. With the creepy black holes for his eyes.

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