Page 237 of Mad Girl

“You hate your life?” Nic whispered.

“What’s to like? I don’t actually know my father at all. Even when you give me something normal, I’m not allowed to have it in a normal way. I’ve been trapped inside this dark dungeon of a house—like a prisoner—my entire childhood, and you’ve made it impossible for me to leave. My life is one giant freak show, and I hate it. You do nothing but control, smother, and let me down, and I can’t wait until the day I finally get to be free of you, too.”

Nic nodded, his eyes full of tears. He glanced away again, swiped at his face when one of those tears fell, then left the room.

I’d gone full throttle on my dad—and I didn’t feel good about it. I never did. In the end, lashing out never felt as liberating as I hoped it would.

“Jesus, Elliot,” you whispered. “Is that true? You hate your life?”

“I don’t know anymore.” I rushed upstairs before you could ask more questions.

A few days later, I found two boxes sitting on my desk. One contained all the underwear I’d ordered, and the other contained the toys. But opening them felt wrong after the way I’d used the items to mess with my dad—the toys seemed especially tainted and gross, considering they’d been purchased with my dad’s credit card—so I shoved the boxes under my bed, where one of them remains unopened to this day.

LETTER TWENTY-THREE

20 WEEKS LEFT

I had the shock of my life this morning.

Half-asleep, I’d been brushing my teeth at the squatty little sink in my cell when one of the female guards shoved a newspaper through the bars, cackling as it hit the concrete floor. “Looks like your daddy went and got himself engaged, Bancroft.”

I stood there, stiff and mute, toothpaste dripping down the front of my orange scrubs. Engaged?

My cellmate swiped the newspaper off the floor and skimmed the article. When she flipped the page, I snapped out of it long enough to whisper a delayed, “What?”

“Damn,” Rochelle said. “This is some savage shit, rich girl. He leaves you in here for over a year without a single visit, remodels your house, and now he’s engaged to the bitch who remodeled your house? And he’s letting you learn about it from a newspaper?” She clucked her tongue. “Savage.”

I snatched the newspaper from her, hands shaking as I read the headline: Real estate magnate Nic Bancroft to marry local interior designer.

You know that little analogy I made about our family in the very beginning? The one where I compared us to an apple?

The Harrises were that glossy red coating on the outside, my dad the core that held us all together, and me: the bad seed who threatened to spoil the whole fruit. And you—I compared you to the proverbial worm who slithers up out of nowhere to nibble his way into the apple.

You should know: I regret that part.

For more than eighteen months, I’ve managed to keep myself in the dark about what’s happening outside these walls, but that single headline revealed a lot.

If my dad’s engaged, then it all fell apart.

Remove the core, and the apple rots.

It’s strange, you know—the unexpected grief I feel at learning my dad and the Harrises are no longer together. The grief, but also: the rage.

Black, fiery, tar-like rage.

When we sat across from each other at the steel table today, I glimpsed so many emotions cross your face. Regret. Concern. Fear.

You held a shaky hand out to placate me. “Listen, I didn’t know. I’m just as shocked as you are.”

I glared at you.

“I didn’t know. I swear it. I had no idea he was doing that—or I would’ve warned you. All of us were blindsided this morning. All of us.”

My whole body trembled with anger.

“Elliot,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry you had to find out this way. You’ve no idea how bad I feel.”

Your gaze held mine, desperate and pleading, but I remained silent.