Page 248 of Mad Girl

Nestled in the little flowerbed between Willoughby’s brownstone and the one next door, one of those stupid campaign signs taunted me: ELIZABETH for BOSTON. I kicked the sign over, then stomped it into the ivy and dirt. Out loud, I said, “Elizabeth is a liar.”

That’s when it came to me: the idea to mess with them. Mess with her. That greedy bitch, who pretended to be the perfect wife when, in fact, her husband wasn’t good enough so she had to sleep with my dad, too. That fake-ass bitch who pretended to love me, but wanted me shipped off to Arizona, where I couldn’t tarnish her perfect reputation.

Heart trilling with excitement, I strolled back inside Willoughby’s, careful to avoid you and Astronaut Girl, making a haphazard beeline for the kitchen drawer. I’d spotted a bunch of pens and other random stuff inside the last time I’d visited. Being nosy definitely had its perks.

“Elliot!” Tinsley said, sidling up to me, brown eyes glossy and slightly unfocused. She was tipsy, for sure, maybe already drunk. “What are you doing down here?” She clutched my arm. “Wait. Are you and Casey leaving?”

“Yeah. My dad wants us home now,” I lied, rifling through the mess in the drawer until I found something sufficient—a giant black marker.

“What do you need that for?” Tinsley asked, leaning over the counter.

I dropped the marker inside my coat pocket. “Hey,” I said, squeezing her hand. “Be safe, okay? Text me later.”

Heart pounding, I weaved through the crowd in the kitchen, everyone drunk and laughing, people trying to talk over the music. Out back, in Willoughby’s courtyard, a discarded mask sat on the patio table. I picked it up.

Simple white plastic. Flaming black eyes. Black flames, like tears, licking down each cheek. Black lips curled into a wicked smirk. I carried it with me as I slipped out the back gate.

In the alley, I pulled my braid free, letting my hair fall in loose ringlets around my shoulders. I donned the mask and set off.

The nippy night air bit at my bare skin as I took the long way home through Back Bay, avoiding the high-traffic areas close to the park. Only a few stragglers were left from trick-or-treating, older kids, barely dressed up, laughing with their friends as they loitered home. At the first sign I saw, I knelt low to the ground—as if to tie the laces on my boots—and pulled the marker from my coat. Quickly, I scribbled across the front.

ELIZABETH HARRIS for MAYOR became ELIZABETH HARRIS IS A LIAR.

At the next townhouse, ELIZABETH for BOSTON became ELIZABETH IS A FRAUD.

On and on I went, telling the truth:

ELIZABETH LIES

ELIZABETH HIDES

ELIZABETH HARRIS IS FAKE

ELIZABETH HARRIS HAS SECRETS

Halfway down Comm Ave, I received a text from you: Have you left? You’ve left without me, haven’t you?

I replied, See you at home. Have fun with astronaut girl.

FFS, you replied, tacking a rolling eyes emoji on the end. I smiled, feeling lighter already.

By the time I made it home, I sort of regretted leaving you at the party, especially if it meant you’d get in trouble with my dad. I’d wait for you out back so we could walk in together, one whole hour before curfew, and Nic would be none the wiser.

On the stone bench that faced the kitchen window, I sat with my legs crossed, the cool night air caressing my skin through the mask. I kept it on. A little Halloween treat for you. Me, shrouded in darkness, the white of the mask glinting beneath the silver glare of the moon.

Less than five minutes later, the back door opened, and there stood my dad, frozen in the doorway, staring out at me.

So much for not getting caught.

Slowly, Nic descended the steps, and in a terrifying voice I’d only heard him use once before—“I would never have let her take you away from me, you’re mine”—he said, “What are you doing here?”

My skin prickled as Nic crept closer, his body coiled tight, hands flexing by his side. Because he didn’t look like my dad, Casey. He wasn’t the man I knew, not out there in the dark. He was someone else. Someone stone-faced and grim. Someone ready to pounce.

I gripped the edge of the stone bench, frightened of him.

“Answer my question,” he said, the low growl of his voice sending a chill up my spine. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

I swallowed. “I live here.”