Page 118 of Mad Girl

“Yeah? Then how did Michael manage to carry Tinsley all the way upstairs without Casey noticing?”

“He didn’t. That’s how Casey caught us—but I begged him not to tell you.” Nic was glaring pretty hard at you, so I rushed to add, “It’s my fault, Dad. Casey is innocent.”

“No, he is not innocent,” said Nic, rounding the coffee table. “After everything I’ve done for you, Casey, do you have any idea how close you are to losing it all?”

When you continued to stare at the floor without giving him a response, it made Nic angry. So angry that he reached down, clasped your chin in his hand, and shoved your head back, forcing your gaze to meet his. “You look at me when I’m talking to you, son.”

Michael drew back on the sofa, watching this go down, shocked. It shocked me, too. I’d never seen my dad handle anyone like that.

Throat bobbing frantically, you gripped Nic’s forearm.

“Do you realize what you’ve put at stake by taking this matter into your own hands?” he asked you.

“It wasn’t just him,” said Michael, rushing to defend you. “It was my idea, too, Nic.”

“You’re supposed to look out for him, Casey—not help him make poor decisions.” Nic jabbed his finger at Michael. “This could destroy his whole life.”

Michael made a face at this, brows lowered in confusion, likely wondering why the decisions he made in life should be your concern at all.

With Nic’s hand still clamped down on your jaw, you said, “You think I don’t plan to take the fall for him—for the both of us—if I have to?”

“You should’ve come to me,” Nic snapped. “You should’ve let me handle this.”

“Yes,” you agreed. “But she’s my responsibility, and I messed up by letting her go. I saw what they did to her, and I wanted them to pay. I’m sorry, Nic. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Nic dropped his hand from your face and gripped your shoulder. “You’re lucky I have a friend on the inside, who alerted me to this incident ahead of time—so we can get our stories straight. If we do this right, no one gets in trouble and this all goes away.”

I remember wondering how—and why—my dad would have connections to the police.

But, anyway, that’s exactly what the three of you did: got your stories straight. Nic sent me upstairs, ordering me to stay there, hoping to keep my bruised face out of sight. An hour later, when the doorbell rang, I creeped across the landing outside my room and positioned myself against the wall, as close to the mahogany spindles as I could get without being spotted. But curiosity got the better of me, and I peeked through the spindles, anyway, watching Nic open the door to a male detective and a male officer with the Boston PD.

Nic and the detective greeted each other with warm smiles, shaking hands in a way that suggested they knew each other. It made me think this detective might’ve been his “friend on the inside.”

The detective glanced up—toward the eye in the ceiling—and I quickly drew back. I listened as you and Michael, sitting side by side on the stairs, fielded the officers’ questions. I didn’t catch much of what you said, just enough to know your stories lined up. Enough to know it would all go away, exactly like my dad said.

That night, my dad made me stand before him in a sports bra while he snapped pictures of my bruises with his phone.

“What will you do with the pictures?” I asked, pulling my Harvard sweatshirt on and retreating back to the bed.

“That detective who stopped by earlier? He says the boys don’t want to press charges—their parents are the ones pursuing this. So the photos are leverage. If they want to come after Michael and Casey, they need to understand I’m fully prepared to go after their boys, too. But their boys won’t recover from allegations of attempted rape and murder—not to mention drugging a girl. If I have to, I’ll destroy their lives for fucking with my family.”

For the first time ever, I saw a glimpse of myself in Nic. He could be dark, scary, and vengeful, too.

Softening, he pocketed his phone and joined me amongst my pillows.

He didn’t ask questions about that night or try to fix it. He just sat there, steady and close, like he used to when I was small and emotions felt too big to carry on my own.

Maybe that’s why I finally allowed myself to break. Because, for the first time in days, I didn’t have to hide anymore.

All the fear and shame came crashing out at once, sobs tearing through my body. Nic held me until the final cry poured out, like he’d done countless times over the course of my childhood.

By the middle of the week, I learned that Greer and Rory were gone.

Not in the hospital, gone. Gone from my school forever, gone.

Which meant those pictures had not only worked in Nic’s favor—they’d helped him remove those boys from my world altogether.

Whether I liked his involvement or not, my dad had handled it.