Page 231 of Mad Girl

“Tabitha can’t actually afford a condo in Back Bay,” he said, now toying with the opposite cuff link, “especially not one that’s worth almost two million dollars. Who do you think owns the building Tinsley and her mom live in?” He waited for me to guess, not that it took very long, before saying, “I own Tabitha’s condo, which I lease to her for so cheap that she was able to put Tinsley through ten years of private school without once having to rely on Tinsley’s shitty, irresponsible dad to help her make the payments. So if I tell Tabitha to send you home, she will.”

See there, Casey? My dad had a hand in everything. Once he’d captured you in his sticky web of control, you were trapped there. Forever. With no way out.

My body slumped against the seat, tears clawing up my throat. “Making it impossible for me to leave is abuse,” I whispered. “I can report you to the authorities.”

Nic abandoned the cuff links to smooth down his tie. “Good luck with that. I have a friend on the force, remember?”

I laughed to keep from crying—or hurling myself from the car. I probably wouldn’t survive the fall, but the upside was: he couldn’t control a corpse. “Yeah? How do you pay this friend to look the other way while you walk around doing illegal shit? In cash? Or something else?”

“I don’t pay him, Elliot. We’ve known each other a long time.”

“How? He an ex-boyfriend of yours?”

“What?” His brows lowered in confusion. I’d caught him off guard. “No, we go way back. That’s it.”

This would’ve been an ideal time for me to throw my knowledge of the Harrises in his face, except I liked knowing something about my dad he didn’t know I knew. I liked the idea of him trying to work out how I could confidently assume he swam in both gender pools.

“What you said to me this morning was very hurtful. You’re done with me? Why are you done with me, Elliot? What have I done to deserve that?”

His voice sounded just wounded enough that, despite feeling powerless, remorse pricked at my conscience. It had to be Stockholm syndrome—these mixed emotions I experienced around my dad. It shouldn’t have hurt me to hurt him. I shouldn’t have cared about his feelings at all. But I did.

As Hal crept through traffic, I watched a middle-aged couple walk their golden retriever up the pumpkin-littered stoop of a stately brownstone with a slate roof. Big tree out front. Golden yellow and green leaves, vibrant in the late afternoon sun.

“I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong,” he added softly, which obliterated what little remorse I felt and enraged me more. Here he was, acting like the wronged party. Acting like I needed to stop being difficult and open up to him. Acting like the type of man who was capable of being honest when presented with a personal question, despite how glaringly clear it had become to me that he’d never been honest at all.

I aimed a glare at him. “I wish my dad wasn’t such a fucking liar or a controlling psychopath, but we can’t always get what we wish for, can we?”

And my dad, Casey, he didn’t dispute my claim or scold me for calling him a psychopath or defend himself or anything. He simply stared back at me before turning his face to the opposite window.

His lack of response spoke volumes.

It made me think he must’ve been lying about a lot. Lying about so much more than his relationship with the Harrises.

A couple days later, while you attended your therapy session, I sat in the car with Hal, refusing to attend mine.

“I can’t believe you backed my dad up the other day when he forced me into the car,” I said, scowling at Hal’s reflection in the rearview mirror.

“He’s my boss, Ell. I have to do what he says.”

I nodded slowly, then titled my head. “I wonder what he’d say if he knew you took me to that party at Willoughby’s last year.”

Hal’s gaze slid away from mine.

“What do you know about my dad’s love life?” I asked.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”

“What do you know about the woman who’s been watching my house?”

“Not at liberty to discuss her, either.” He turned in the driver’s seat. “But we can talk about anything else that might be bothering you,” he said gently. “Like why you’re refusing to go to therapy.”

I turned to the window. “No, thank you.”

“Come on, Ell. I’m still on your side. You know that, right?”

I laughed through the hard lump that had risen in my throat. “No one’s on my side.”

An hour later, you and I found Nic waiting for us in the entry hall. He snatched the phone from my hand—the purse hanging from my shoulder, too—and said, “You won’t tell me what’s wrong? I’m going through everything you own. I’m tired of this bullshit.”