Page 208 of Mad Girl

That’s when she lifted her phone to snap a picture—of me, standing outside on the stoop—which I found extremely odd, if her purpose for being there was to watch for Libby.

As the woman lowered her phone, her lips curled into something between a smile and a smirk, and that pissed me off—the nerve of this woman, spying on my house. I started to charge down the steps, but someone caught my arm.

“Don’t,” Michael said. I tried walking forward, anyway, but he pulled me back. “You can’t talk to her. It’s a bad idea.”

“She took a picture of me,” I said, gaze still aimed at the woman as she backed up on the sidewalk. “I want to tell her to mind her own business.”

“Elliot,” you said from behind us. “He’s right. Come back inside.”

I turned to look at you—leaning inside the doorway, both hands jammed in your pockets, peering across the street—and it cost me. Because when I turned back around, the woman had already begun to walk away, her dark ponytail bouncing as she hiked up the road, slipped past a hoard of tourists, and disappeared from my view.

The woman’s presence left an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach, but not nearly as odd as my dad’s behavior when he strode into the Garland Room an hour later, home early from work. You and Michael trailed close behind him.

“Elliot,” said Nic, all business. “Don’t ever approach that woman you saw on the street today.” He pointed at me. “Don’t ever talk to her. Do you understand me?”

“How do you know about the woman?”

“Casey told me.” Nic took a seat on the coffee table—across from me and Willoughby—and held my gaze. “Listen, I need you to understand how important this is. You can’t ever talk to her.”

“But she’s spying on us,” I said. “I’m pretty sure she took a picture of me.”

Nic loosened the knot in his tie, scraped both hands down his thighs, and rubbed at his forehead—all of this in rapid succession. “I don’t care what she does or where she’s been. You can’t talk to her.” His gaze frantically dashed around the room. “None of you can.” He looked at Willoughby. “That goes for you, too, Willoughby. If she ever approaches you, turn around and walk in the opposite direction. Do not engage with her. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Willoughby.

“Michael?”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Michael said, holding both hands up. “I already know.”

“Casey,” said Nic. “Don’t ever allow Elliot near that woman. Do you hear me?”

“Of course,” you said, the groove between your eyebrows deepening. My dad’s reaction to this woman concerned you.

Me, though? I was livid. Nic’s order—coupled with your willingness to obey his every command—made me want to kick something.

“Don’t allow me near her?” I asked. “Why? You think I’ll say something to hurt Libby’s image?”

“No,” said Nic. “That’s not—that isn’t what I’m suggesting at all, Elliot.”

“Yes, it is. You think I’ll mess with that woman. You think—” That’s when the actual reason dawned: I knew your secret, and he probably figured I’d slip again. “Oh, I get it. You really don’t trust me, do you, Dad? You always expect the worst of me.” I flicked my eyes in your direction, so he understood my meaning.

“Elliot, stop. Okay? I need everyone to stay away from her.”

“Especially me, though, right? That’s why you just ordered Casey to keep me away from her—me specifically.”

“Elliot,” Nic said. “I need you to listen to what I’m saying. Stay away from all strangers. Don’t talk to anyone.”

It sounded like something you’d say to a kid. Stranger danger.

“But I would never say anything to hurt the Harrises, Dad. You’re seriously overreacting right now.”

“I’m not overreacting!” Nic yelled.

Willoughby twitched beside me. You and Michael reared back, surprised by Nic’s outburst.

Nic, squeezing his eyes shut, attempted to regain his composure. He pressed his hands together in a praying gesture and put them to his face. Then, reaching out to take my hand, he tilted his head to the side. “This is really important. Okay, honey?” he said softly. “Just promise me you won’t go near her.”

The pleading look on my dad’s face—his hand shaking slightly as it grasped mine—was so out of character for him that some of my anger drained away. I considered the toll your secret had already taken on him, and how much worse a toll it would take if that secret fell into the wrong hands. And while I resented the implication that I might slip your secret (again), I certainly understood the importance of not allowing your news to be revealed to the Harrises in such a public way. I thought of how that might impact my dad’s friendship with John and Libby if your identity were first revealed to them through the media. I thought of how it might also affect you, your relationship with the Harrises, your relationship with Michael. I thought of how my own friendship with Michael—with Bree—might be shaken by a revelation like that, especially when they discovered I’d known for a whole year. None of us might ever recover from it. So, for everyone’s sake, I forced my resentment aside and nodded at my dad. “I won’t go near her. I promise.”