Page 169 of Mad Girl

What happened next, Casey, was a tidal wave, too many sensations crashing over me at once.

Hot. Too hot. Sweating. Rapid breaths. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t catch my breath. Couldn’t see. Ripping at my clothes. At the damn dress. Stupid fucking dress. Heart racing, whole body shaking. Couldn’t breathe. Some invisible force choking me, pulling me under. Clawing at my chest. No, me.

Me, clawing. Clawing at my own chest. Clawing at the straps. Have to get it off. Have to get free. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.

Can.

Not.

Breathe.

Someone there. Grabbing my hands. Telling me to stop. Elliot, stop. Please stop. Jesus. Fuck. Stop. Michael. Michael’s voice.

Someone else there, shushing me. Saying it’s okay. Hand to my chest, telling me to breathe. Just breathe. You’re okay, Elliot. You’re okay. I’m here. You’re safe. My dad. Nic’s voice. Calm but firm, reminding me to breathe.

“Can’t.” My voice came out choked, little more than a rasp. “Can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Nic said, pressing my hand to his chest. “Deep breaths. One in. One out.”

“What—?” I tried, tears streaming down my face. “What is⁠—?”

“Focus on my breathing,” Nic said, pressing my hand even harder against his chest. So I did, focusing on every rise, every fall. Slow to rise. Slow to fall. Little by little, my breathing began to regulate.

I tried speaking again. “What—what’s happening to me?”

“You’re having a panic attack, sweetheart. That’s all it is. You’re going to be okay. You’re safe. I’m right here. You’re safe.”

Little by little, my vision cleared.

My dad’s face: perfectly normal. Perfectly calm.

Michael’s face: not normal. Not at all calm. Scared.

All three of us were kneeling on the floor.

As Nic talked, telling me to breathe, the reassuring sound of his voice dulled the sharp edges of my panic. Underneath my palm, the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart caused mine to slow.

“Where’s Casey?” Michael asked, glancing around the entry hall.

“Not here,” I managed.

Surprise registered on Michael’s face. “He left you alone?”

But Nic wasn’t surprised. Somehow, my dad already seemed to know you weren’t there. And then it occurred to me: maybe that’s why he was there, home so early from work.

Michael’s gaze dropped to my chest. “I’ll kill him.”

That’s when I glanced down, seeing the damage for myself. During the attack, I’d shoved my new blue dress down to my waist, baring the white strapless bra underneath it. Above the bra—which thankfully hadn’t budged—were more than a dozen claw marks.

Angry, red welts.

Blood.

My fingers shook as I touched them to my blemished skin.

“No, you won’t,” Nic said to Michael. “You have to be easy on him, or he’ll blame himself for this.”

“He is to blame.”