“This is why she needs to go, Elena. She’s not right in the head.” Every limb in my body seems to respond at the same time. My feet carry me down five steps in what feels like a single movement. My left arm arcs backward, part of me and not part of me at once. My mouth opens and forms the syllables of “bastard” as a fist I didn’t know I was capable of strikes Malcolm squarely in the jaw, slanting off, hurting. Malcolm says nothing, only pushes a bundle of coats and shoes into my chest. They’re heavy, but not as heavy as my rage. “You fucking son of a bitch,” I whisper.
