“Malachi, grab your baseball bat and meet me in the garage.” “Oh, he already got them.” Dad stops, turning. “What?” “They’re all dealt with.” I got them, Dad, Malachi signs, and my eyes widen. He never talks to him. Ever. Never mind calling him Dad. It hits my father, and I can tell he wants to hug my brother, but he won’t. “Good one, son. If any cops show up, I’ll deal with them.” He gestures to the stairs. “Go shower. You’re covered in blood, and it’s staining your mother’s carpets.”
