“D-O-V-E. Twice.”
Her movement stutters, but she enters the corresponding numbers.
“I’ve always wondered. Are your gloves custom made?”
“Yes.” She enters my messages, scans the preview on a text from Iverson talking about his Flag Day ball, rolls her eyes, then finds her own contact labeledDovein the favorites list beside him. Because they’re the only ones there.
“Touch-screen-friendly ballroom gloves…” I coo. “Adorable.”
She doesn’t pay me mind. What she does is share my location with her, then she lifts her chin and returns the device. Coldly, she says, “Run.”
I blink. “Run…?”
She gestures behind me. “Around the whole park before it’s our turn on this giant metal Petri dish.” Folding her hands together in front of her skirt, she blesses me with the first glimpse of a realalmostsmile. It’s the only one I have ever seen on her in person. Gently, she then says, “Go.”
Beaming, I pocket my phone, turn on my heel, and obey.
…knowing full-well that I might just be screwed.
Chapter Ten
?
I should know better than to play with fire…but it does have sanitizing properties.
Azalea
There’s a high chance if Malcolm keeps this up, it’ll go to my head.
Sitting on a park bench beside the nasty ride thateveryonewho enters this park shuffles through, I watch my phone screen as the bubble indicating Malcolm’s location bobs over the map. He’s actually doing what I told him to. He’s actually running around the entire park. Because I told him to.
After years of listening tostand, sit, come, go, I’m almost positive this is therapy.
Nevertheless, it would be lying if I say I don’t hope for him to drop dead any second now. At this distance, it might be tricky to retrieve and destroy his phone with its potentially incriminating texts, but now that I’ve got its location, I’m a bit more confident in the possibility of covering those tracks.
Far sooner than I’d like, the bubble begins making its way back to me, and I look up in time to find Malcolm scrubbing sweat from his chin and scanning the queue between us. His eyes locate mine at last, and his mouth hooks up.
My back straightens as he strides forward, parting the line of people to reach me.
Prim, I cross my ankles when he stops, sopping and gross, before me. “I can’t believe you really did it. Not a single cut corner, all the way around,” I provide, conversationally.
Hardly so much as sounding out of breath, he says, “I’m not even a little surprised you left the line. How long did it take before you realized you could?”
“Until the moment your back was turned.”
He exhales a laugh, then he mutters a curse. “You’re cute.”
“You’re disgusting.”
He cuts bare fingers through damp hair. “Verbal abuse on top of physical demands? You’re really spoiling me today.”
For the first time ever, I wonder if Malcolm Swallow is in need of genuine professional assistance. Like in a maybe it could help, maybe it could fix him sort of way. Clearly, his damage isn’t just affecting others; it’s also self-corrosive. Maybe the way he’s messed up is something clinically diagnosable and—most importantly—clinically medicable. Via therapy. And also drugs.Lotsof drugs.
Falling onto the bench, as far from me as possible, Malcolm sighs cheerfully. “So.” He plants his hands on his thighs and tilts his face toward me. “Do you understand the situation now? Or do you want me to do another lap?”
I don’t know if I understand anything at the moment, but there is an odd buzzing sensation beneath my skin, and I do want to know what it is. “You’ll doanythingI say?” I ask.
“Yes.”
