Page 189 of Mad Girl

I followed him out to the Range Rover, and he helped me into the passenger seat. He wouldn’t look at me. “Dad, I didn’t do this on purpose. I reached inside the trash for my earbuds, and something in there sliced my hand open.”

Unconvinced, Nic slammed the car door in my face. He wouldn’t talk to me on the way to the ER, or while we sat in the waiting room, or while a doctor sewed up my hand. On the car ride back to the estate, he completely ignored my pleas for him to speak to me. By the time we arrived home, the sun hung low and orange in the sky, my blood had disappeared from the kitchen, and everyone had gathered in the dining room, waiting on us to join them for dinner. As I took a seat at the table next to my dad, I clutched my bandaged hand, self-conscious.

“How many stitches?” Libby asked Nic.

“Seven,” he said, roughly chopping up his chicken. When he noticed me struggling to chop mine, he jerked my plate over and cut my food into small bites. Like I was a kid.

Neither John nor Libby would meet my gaze. Bree and Amber wouldn’t, either. No one would.

“I cut my hand on something in the trash,” I said to them. “Broken glass or something. I don’t know. Something cut me.”

“Elliot, honey,” Libby said. “We saw the knife on the counter.”

“No. I only used that to cut up an apple.”

“So you did use the knife.”

“Yes, but not on myself.”

“Sweetie, don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying. Something in the trash sliced through me when I tried to dig my earbuds out of there.”

“Okay.” Libby nodded, glancing around the table. “Did anyone break a glass or something and throw it in the kitchen trash recently?”

“Not me,” John said.

“Not me,” said Amber.

“Nope. Not me,” said my dad.

Bree shook her head.

“Well, there you go,” Libby said. “Because I haven’t thrown away any broken glass, either.”

“Well, what about the housekeeping?”

“They haven’t been by in days, Elliot.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose! This is bullshit. I’ll go through the trash right now and prove it.”

With my good hand, I pushed myself up from the table. But Nic grabbed my elbow and jerked me back down to my seat. “No one’s falling for the lie, Elliot. Enough.”

You see, this was the problem with hurting myself every year close to my birthday, with using cutlery to hurt myself in general, with telling so many lies over the years: no one believed me. Plus, during my argument with John and Nic a couple of weeks prior, I’d said: I want to take something sharp and drive it through my hand right now. To them, it likely appeared as if I’d done just that.

For once, I was telling the truth, and no one cared to hear it. My dad especially. My dad’s refusal to listen stung the most.

I’d lost my appetite. But I didn’t want to make my dad angrier, so I forced myself to choke down the food, swallowing past the giant lump in my throat.

Before breakfast the next morning, I received a FaceTime call from Michael—and he was furious. “What the hell, Elliot?”

“It was an accident.”

“Yeah, right. Your birthday’s in a few weeks, and you always do this.”

“No—”

“You promised me last year. You promised you wouldn’t do this anymore. Slicing your hand open? Seven stitches? I’m so pissed at you right now. You lied to me.”