Malice

2

“Mallory. Mal, baby? Can you hear me?”

My head throbs, and my eyelids weigh at least ten pounds each. I can’t respond right away—my throat is too dry, and my lips are sandpaper—so I let out a ragged moan instead.

“Mallory. I need you to wake the fuck up. Wake up right now!”

The urgency in the gravelly voice hissing in my ear has me forcing my eyes open. I’m surprised to find Je

“M-momma?” I groan. My head is fuzzy, and I feel so groggy. I can hardly string words together in my mind as I squint up at her. “Momma, what—”

But she presses a finger to my lips, invading my nostrils with the stench of stale tobacco and sweat. “You listen to me close, baby girl, all right? The cops are on their way.”

“Wh-what?” I’m trying to figure out where I am. There’s beeping machinery and soft white walls. Hospital. Why am I in the hospital? “Why are the police coming? What—”

“Shh.” Je

No, that’s not true.

It’s far more startling than that.

“Mom, what’s going on?” I rasp.

“Do you remember what happened yesterday? The fire?”

At that word—fire—it all comes flooding back to me. Je

James.

Dylan’s baby.

James is dead.

The baby is gone, miscarried.

And I killed them. I killed them both.

Oh, no. No. No.

Not James. Not sweet, loyal, stubborn James. He can’t be dead. He just can’t be.

But then I remember Dylan, his eyes stark as he yelled at me. I remember him telling me that James was in that house. That James had gone in looking for me. That James had never come out.

The room begins to spin, and I think I’m going to throw up.

It shouldn’t have been James. It should’ve been me.

Je

I want to cry, and my mind is so foggy, I’m struggling to compartmentalize my panic so I can listen to her. “I don’t want to go to prison, Momma,” I whimper, practically reverting back to a child in my fear.

I almost expect her to tell me to shut the hell up, to suck it the hell up, but then she coos, “You’re not going to, baby girl.”

This is the most surreal moment of my life. I’m actually turning to Je

“When the cops show up, you are not going to tell them you set that fire, you understand? You’re going to tell them I did it.”

“What?” I gasp, noticing for the first time that my words are slurring. I sound drunk. “A-are you serious?”

She peers down at me for a long time, then nods and rakes her fingers through her lanky hair. It’s the first time I’ve noticed the new color. At some point between the last time I saw her yesterday afternoon and today, she had bleached her long brown hair to a frizzy, brassy disaster.

Stepping back, she tugs at the waist of her baggy jeans. “Place all the blame on me and the shit in the basement, you got me?” she finally says.

“But … but why are you … what about the …?” I’m struggling to put questions together, but Je

“No questions. Just do exactly what I say. Carley’s on her way up from Atlanta to take you home with her.”

Carley. Carley hasn’t talked to Je

When Je

She smiles but it’s lifeless. “It’s better you don’t know all that.”

A minute later, Je

The next time I wake up, I’m surrounded by police officers and social workers.

“Mallory Ellis? We have some questions for you regarding the fire that destroyed your home…”

I don’t know how I make it through the whole ordeal, but I do. Just as Je

It’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever snitched to the cops, and I’m only doing it because Je

After they take my statement and finally leave, I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling, tears scalding the sides of my face as I wonder what the hell just happened. Why did Je

Instead, she sacrificed her freedom for mine. She’ll be on the run now. Never able to settle in one place for long as the police search for her. And me?

I’m supposed to go to Atlanta and start a new life, far away from the mistakes that my mom just buried for me.

I shake my head sharply to banish the memories away, but it doesn’t stop the chills from creeping down my spine.

Despite how drugged up I was the day after the accident, I still remember everything that Je

I’m not surprised it’s been triggered now. The situations are far too similar, and the memories are increasingly demanding my attention.

Headmaster Aldridge and Mrs. Wilmer left the room several minutes ago, and I’ve been alone, with nothing to distract me from my disturbed thoughts but dead memories and a note and a photo of a girl that looks suspiciously like me—like Je