Page 286 of Mad Girl

“Wednesday.”

My heart sank. “Before Christmas, then.”

You knocked my arm with yours. “Never thought I’d see you quite so glum over me leaving.”

“I’m not glum,” I said, but my voice cracked, giving me away.

You draped an arm across my shoulders, then pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “I’ll be back in time for New Year’s Eve. What if I stay in and we binge crap TV the whole night?”

“Sounds good,” I said with a smile.

“Good,” you said, smiling back. “It’s a date.”

“I see what you did there. You don’t think you’re getting a kiss at midnight, do you?”

“A guy can dream,” you said near my ear, voice raspy but deep.

My heart skipped.

Once home, we spotted a man standing on the corner, one hand pressed to his forehead, the other clutched around his phone, clearly exhibiting signs of distress. As he approached us, you shielded my body with yours.

He was a tourist, he said, and his phone had died. He had no idea how to make it back to his hotel without GPS to guide him through the city. He asked if you would please give him directions.

You told him you’d certainly try, then ordered me inside the house.

In the entry hall, I disabled the alarm and removed my crossbody bag, but in doing so, knocked the paper cup out of my hand, which sent coffee splattering all over the floor. I swore at the mess, then stepped over it, heading for a roll of paper towels in the kitchen. I’d just passed the basement door when a loud clanging noise stopped me cold. Confused, I stared at the basement door, thinking. Henriette always finished her work long before I got home from school, so that sound—which had definitely come from the basement—couldn’t have come from her.

Heart pounding, I opened the door and peered downstairs, but found it too dim to see anything. I ventured down the steps and paused at the bottom, listening closely, eyes adjusting to the low level of light seeping through the basement windows. A quick glance around revealed the source of the sound—a mop and broom had toppled to the floor, knocking down a few cleaning supplies with them. I figured the mop or broom must’ve fallen first, taking down the rest of the items with it.

I walked over, picked up the cleaning supplies, and put them back the way they usually were.

And that’s the last thing I remember before waking up in the hospital.

I bolted upright, clutching the back of my head, sharp pain radiating across my skull.

“Hey,” my dad softly, grasping my shoulder. “Take it easy.”

“What am I doing here?” I demanded, voice rising with panic. “What happened? What’s going on?”

You were there, too—standing behind Nic’s chair—but your behavior confused me. With your eyes squeezed shut, you rubbed your forehead and released a sigh of frustration.

“You slipped in the basement, Elliot. Hit your head,” Nic said, then he paused, searching my gaze. “How old are you?”

I pulled a face. “What kind of question is that?”

“Just answer me.” Nic leaned forward, eagerly awaiting my response.

You, however, simply turned your head and gazed out the hospital window. Giant snowflakes swirled through the air. The very first snowfall of the season.

“I’m nineteen,” I said.

Your gaze immediately snapped to mine.

“How long has Casey lived with us?” Nic asked.

“Over two years now.”

“How many Christmases have we spent with him?”