Page 265 of Mad Girl

“I don’t see the point anymore. What good has it done you?”

“But that’s what I’m supposed to do when I hurt people.”

“It’s a lost cause, Elliot. A waste of money and a waste of time.”

“What are you saying?” Had he just called me a lost cause? A waste of time?

“It doesn’t work,” he said, finally lifting his gaze to mine. He leaned back in his chair, all casual-like, crossing his legs. “The next time someone makes you mad, you’ll do it again. It’ll be the same shit, just a different target. No matter what I do, you’ll continue to hurt people…and yourself.” He studied me a moment. “I bet there’s a bruise or a cut somewhere on your body right now.”

I dropped my gaze to the desk, unable to face the knowing look in his eye.

“That’s what I thought,” he said. “You made a promise to me, and you’ve already broken it.”

“Just send me back to Dr. Goldstein, okay? I’ll apologize to you and Libby—John, too. The whole family. I’ll apologize for everything.”

How messed up is that? My dad had finally decided to do away with the apology routine, and I wanted it back. Without it, I felt unclean. More importantly, I couldn’t let him think I felt zero remorse for my actions. Couldn’t let him give up. Couldn’t let him dismiss me as a lost cause or a waste of time. Couldn’t be those things in addition to a hard no, a psychopath, a freak.

“Nah,” he said with a shrug. “I can only hear I’m sorry so many times before I start to question whether or not you actually mean it, and I’m not sure you do mean it. If you did, you wouldn’t behave like this anymore.”

This ripped my heart out.

“I’m partially to blame for all this,” he added. “I should’ve known better than to believe you would ever be able to keep your promise to me.”

“What does that mean?”

Nic pulled a stack of papers from the top drawer of his desk. “I reached out to that hospital in Arizona again.”

My stomach dropped. “You’re sending me away?”

For a long time, Nic stared at me, his expression sad. More than sad: tired and resigned. “It’s the one thing I haven’t tried yet.”

“Legally, I’m an adult,” I said, clutching the arm of the chair. “You can’t do that. You can’t send me there against my will.”

“Of course I can,” he said with a nonchalant tilt of his head. “I know a judge who’ll sign off on it.”

That weekend, I locked myself in my room, didn’t exit for more than a day and a half, not to eat or anything, surviving only on the metallic-tasting water from my bathroom sink and a smushed protein bar I found in the bottom of my crossbody bag. And what killed me, Casey—what really hurt—was that neither you nor my dad bothered to check on me. My sudden departure from your lives didn’t even warrant a You okay up there? text.

But that was fine. The indifference made me all the more focused on hatching my getaway plan. No Arizona for me. I’d run away before I’d allow Nic to banish me to the desert with scorpions and shit. I’d sneak out in the middle of the night, maybe convince Willoughby to loan me enough cash to take the commuter rail and hole up in a hotel somewhere. Salem or Concord. Somewhere no one would ever think to look for me.

Before brunch that Sunday, I emerged from my lair wearing a robe over my pajamas, my braid hanging limp and disheveled over my shoulder. As I passed the Garland Room, I spotted you guys out of the corner of my eye, sitting in the wingbacks beneath Garland. You both perked up as I walked past.

In the kitchen, I waited for Henriette to turn her back, snatching the Johnnie Walker from the cabinet and slipping the bottle behind my robe. When I strode past Garland again, it looked as though you and Nic were leaned forward in your chairs, watching out for me. Nic called my name, but I ignored him.

I carried the bottle into the shower, taking small swigs as I washed myself. With no food on my stomach, the alcohol hit me fast. I stumbled getting out of the shower, feeling lightheaded and wobbly on my feet. Drying my hair was a chore, the hairdryer too heavy, so I gave up halfway through, lacking the energy—or the dexterity, for that matter—to braid my hair. I left it down and threw on the first items I swiped off the floor of my closet: an old wrinkled t-shirt, some black leggings, and your cardigan.

Gripping the banister hard, I staggered downstairs just in time for brunch. But near the bottom, I slipped on a step, tottering backward and landing on my ass.

And Michael, who happened to be passing through the entry hall at that moment, witnessed it. “Whoa,” he said, rushing over to help me up. “Are you okay?”

I swatted him away. “Fine.”

Michael drew back, studying me closely. “You don’t look fine.”

That’s when you walked up, halting at the sight of us.

“What’s wrong with her?” Michael asked.

You looked me over. “What—what do you mean?”