Hurley was perhaps the only person that’d ever called Malachi little.

It shouldn’t have surprised him when he felt the burning end of the cigar, pushing hot against his sleeve. Malachi flinched away from it instinctively, jerking his arm back, but not before it left a hole in the black fabric and a red mark on his skin.

Cigarette forgotten, he pinched his sleeve between his fingers to get a better look at it.

Mother would not be happy about that. The suit likely wasn’t one of Levi’s, considering the sleeves and trousers did not end far above his wrists and ankles. Had she purchased it just for him, or borrowed it off of some other tall degenerate she kept in closer company?

Malachi shot Hurley a glare. That vicious little bitch knew he wouldn’t do anything more.

He snuffed out the bent cigarette with the heel of his boot. With a swift pivot, he stepped to the door and held it open for the younger to pass through.

“Hanged himself,” Malachi whispered, stepping in behind him. “So they say.”

That much had not been disclosed to the public, of course. Mother had told most of the attendees that it was Lyle’s bad heart that did him in, so as not to lie completely. They’d done a well enough job painting his skin in its usual pallor before they’d put him on display, yet Malachi felt compelled to let the parasite in on the little secret. Why?

Who fucking knew. It gave him a rush to play with fire.

Miriam Brennan dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, standing near her dead husband without looking at him. Her little prop was as dry as her face.