Page 216 of Mad Girl

“Were you trying to keep it from me or something?”

“No. I just”—his eyes drifted closed—“didn’t realize you knew.”

“Well, I do. You keep going back to that stupid bitch, even though you know she’s not a good person. You’re dating some slutty bitch who jumps at the opportunity to screw your best friend. She doesn’t give a shit about you, only the status dating you gives her, and you don’t give a shit about yourself if you’re willing to be with someone like that. And while we’re on the subject of people you don’t give a shit about, you clearly don’t give a shit about me—or you wouldn’t be dating her at all.”

Face pinched as he stared back at me, Michael whispered, “I don’t give a shit about you?”

“Nope,” I said.

“That’s bullshit and you know it. You’re just saying that to hurt me. Every day of my life is—” He stopped, lifting both hands. “I was only trying to help you see this mom thing for what it really is so you don’t hurt yourself too badly over it, but I don’t care about you at all, right? So knock yourself out.”

Michael slammed the back door behind him when he left.

You leaned forward over the island. “Do you want to talk about it?” When I didn’t say anything, you added, “Maybe you could explain it to me a bit more—why you feel that woman out there could be your mum.”

“Why?” I snapped. “So you can go blab to Michael about it?”

You sighed. “I won’t say anything, I promise. Just talk to me. Help me understand.”

“This isn’t something you can ever understand.” I grabbed my phone and pushed away from the island. “Leave me alone.”

At dinner that night, Nic’s attempts at making conversation with us fell flat. And that made him pretty suspicious.

“What’s going on with you two?” he asked, eyes narrowed as he glanced between us. “Did something happen today?”

You stared down at your plate. “Everything’s fine.”

“It’s not, actually,” I said, dropping my fork. “I remembered something earlier, and I’d like to ask you about it. I want you to be honest with me, Dad.”

“Okay,” Nic said, slowly dropping his silverware. He regarded me warily.

“Do you remember that time I got separated from you at the Red Sox game?”

Nic went still. “I do.”

“That nice woman took my hand and offered to help me find you.” I paused to watch his reaction, but there wasn’t one. My dad’s face remained completely impassive. “She’s the same woman who’s watching our house.”

A beat of silence transpired, then Nic shook his head. “No. She’s not.”

“Yes,” I said. “That day at the game, she wore big sunglasses and a ball cap. She had long dark hair, the same color as mine.” I pulled my phone out of my lap and sat it on the dining table, the woman’s picture pulled up on the screen. “This is the same woman.”

Nic glanced down at the picture, Adam’s apple dipping as he swallowed. “I don’t remember what the woman at the ball game looked like. That was a long time ago.”

“You were rude to her.”

“And I shouldn’t have been—but you and I were separated for a while.”

“It wasn’t that long.”

“Yes, it was. I couldn’t find you for at least ten minutes—maybe longer.”

“The way you acted over it wasn’t normal, Dad. You cried. You got John and Libby worked up over it. Eleanor, too. She hugged me.”

“I thought I’d lost you. All these horrible scenarios went through my head, and it scared me to death, Elliot. People snatch kids and run off all the time. Losing a child like that is a parent’s worst nightmare.”

“The woman from the game is the same woman who’s been watching our house,” I repeated.

“No—”