“You listen to me, Elena,” Tyler sneered, pointing a finger in my face. “You do not get to act offended in my house! Not after all I’ve done for you! I let you come here, I let you eat my food, and this is how you repay me? By throwing a tantrum in my living room?!”
I stared at him. I looked at his red, furious face. I heard the words “my house” and “my living room” echo in the silent space.
For a second, I thought I was going to explode with rage.
But instead, the sheer, unadulterated, astronomical delusion of his statement hit me.
I couldn’t hold it in.
I began to laugh.
It wasn’t a hysterical laugh, and it wasn’t a polite chuckle. It was a deep, resonant, full-chested laugh of pure, chilling amusement. It was the laugh of an executioner who had just watched the condemned man tie his own noose and hand over the lever.
My mother scowled, deeply unnerved by the sound. She stepped forward, her face twisted in an ugly mask of superiority.
“Are you having a psychotic break, Elena?” my mother hissed, pointing her diamond-ringed finger at the front door. “Get your coat. Get your brat, and get out of your brother’s house right now before I call the police and have you removed for trespassing and causing a disturbance!”
I wiped a single tear of mirth from the corner of my eye. I stopped laughing, but the terrifying, cold smile remained on my lips.
I reached into the pocket of my cardigan and pulled out my smartphone.
“You call them, Mom,” I said, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Or, if you prefer, let me call them for you. Let’s see exactly who the police will kick out of ‘Tyler’s house’.”
