Page 111 of Mad Girl

It was the wrong thing to say. Greer’s gaze went dark as he released a low, guttural sound—half laugh, half growl. He lifted one hand off the ground and reached between us for his belt again. My stomach plummeted at the sound of his zipper coming down. “You’re about to wish you’d never said that to me.”

“I’m sorry.” A choked whisper. A plea. To this day, Casey, that little slip disgusts me—how he got me to yield. How he broke through my armor to the scared little girl beneath. How he broke me.

“Too late,” he bit out.

I wriggled and squirmed, Rory’s grip on my wrists tightening. Desperate, I lifted my head off the floor and spat in Greer’s face.

Jaw clenched, Greer pressed his hand to my throat. Not tight enough to choke me. Just tight enough to make me panic.

“Stop it,” Rory said after a few seconds of watching me struggle. He released my hands. “Stop it, Greer. This is too fucking far, man!”

But Greer didn’t stop. Rory’s command only prompted him to apply more pressure. Growing more frantic by the second, I clawed at Greer—tried prying his hand loose, tried pushing him back—but he was dead weight. He was cold and unyielding. He was stone.

This was the price for fueling that dark fire within him, and his rage was a different monster entirely, a flame that burned so much brighter than mine. I writhed and kicked. I dug my heels into the floor. I fought.

Real panic was someone squeezing the life out of you. That other stuff? Nothing compared to this.

I wasn’t tough or bad or any of the things I believed myself to be. I was fragile and weak, and this was the end. A little more pressure—that’s all it would take to extinguish the dark, raging flame within me.

And then…

He was doing it, Casey.

He was snuffing me out.

My lungs burned, every gasp scraping like sandpaper against my throat.

All these golden-hued moments flashed before my eyes, and do you want to know what I saw?

I saw my dad, eating ice cream with me on my birthday, the genuine look on his face when he said, “I’m so glad you’re mine.” I saw Tinsley, dancing and laughing with me in my room. I saw Bree, brushing back the flyaway hairs that came loose from my braid. I saw Michael, his beautiful smile, the bright intensity of his gaze every time I stroked that scar on his lip—you’re still here.

And I saw you, staring at me over that cigarette the night we met. The warmth of your smile when you greeted me after school. Your hair, ruffling in the breeze that day on the beach when you gave me the ring. Your eyes, steady on mine and extra blue.

What a shame it was that my life should end like this. That I’d never get to tell you my world was brighter for having you in it. That I’d never get to see how it all turned out when you finally told John you’re his son.

What a shame it was that I should die at eighteen, never knowing what it was like be free, at the hand of some asshole like Greer, all because of my damn mouth. That was the problem with me—I didn’t know when to pull back.

Somewhere in the haze, I heard Rory. Yelling. Frantic. Far away. “I’m opening this door right now, Greer! And everyone out there will see! They’ll see what you’re doing to her! Don’t make me do this, man!”

As my vision blurred at the edges and little pinpricks of light burst before my eyes, Greer removed his hand. I gasped, throat burning as I greedily sucked air back into my lungs.

Greer wiped my spit off his face as he stepped over me. Through the ringing in my ears, I could barely make out his words as he kicked the Wednesday collar out of his walking path. Pretty sure he said, “Stupid bitch.”

When he and Rory left, I sat up slowly, clutching my throat and coughing, then crawled across the floor. It felt like dragging myself through sand, limbs trembling and too heavy, but I needed to lock the door behind them.

Somehow, I managed it. Then dropped to the floor, chest heaving as I struggled to catch my breath. I stared at Tinsley, still unconscious on the bed.

My phone. I crawled again, frantically searching around the bed. Within seconds, I located it underneath the nightstand.

11:25. Thirty-five minutes to get home.

But there was Tinsley, who I’d never get downstairs by myself. Leaving her behind wasn’t an option.

I considered Hal, but he’d read into the situation. Maybe even tell my dad, feeling he didn’t have a choice. And you—I really didn’t want to involve you, remembering how anxious you’d been about the party in the first place. So I called Michael, hands shaking so violently I could barely hold onto the phone.

When he didn’t answer, I let out a sob, then shot him a text: I’m in trouble. I need your help.

I let out another sob—of relief this time—when he called me back a second later. I asked him to come to Willoughby’s and help me get Tinsley out. All he said was, “Drop me a pin.”