Page 351 of Mad Girl

The craving. The self-punishment. The shame. Every time I hurt myself, I reenacted something he’d never told me had happened—and he let me keep doing it. Let me believe it came from nowhere. Let me blame myself.

And now he wanted me to believe he’d done it to protect me? That he loved me too much to tell me the truth?

I needed to leave.

If I stayed, I’d start screaming or sobbing. Or worse—I’d hurt myself again.

I hopped off the bed, grabbed my crossbody bag, and made a move for the door.

“Elliot,” he said softly, standing up. “Don’t, okay? Let’s work through this.”

“Nope. We had eighteen years to work through it—and you failed.” I tried walking past him, but he blocked my path. “Get out of my way.”

“No,” he said, standing firm. “You’re staying here. You’re not leaving.”

Desperate, I went back to the bed, slipped those scissors out from under my pillow, and held them above my thigh. Nic’s eyes grew wide with fear. “Let me go,” I said, voice dipped dangerously low, “or I’ll do it.”

“Honey, please,” he whispered as he stepped out of my way. “Stay.”

“I can’t even look at you anymore.”

I dropped the scissors on my desk, then slung the bag across my chest on my way out the door.

Nic followed me downstairs, still pleading. “Don’t go like this,” he said behind me. “Please. We can fix it.”

The desperation in his voice nearly undid me.

But I didn’t stop. Didn’t dare look back.

Because if I stayed, I might let him try.

When Michael opened his door for me less than twenty minutes later, I rushed inside and collapsed on his couch.

Bree’s barbed words.

Nic’s heartbreaking admissions.

Your tentative plans to leave.

It all rushed out, in sobs and broken sentences. Michael asked me to slow down. He tried his best to calm me.

But I couldn’t be calmed.

There, in Michael’s apartment, I had another panic attack, the stress of the last few weeks catching up with me, the horrible weight of it all sitting on my chest, far too heavy, sucking the air from my lungs, making it difficult to breathe. He placed his hand to my chest and gradually helped me out of it the same way Nic had on your birthday.

But long after he’d helped calm me down, I still felt like I was drowning.

LETTER TWENTY-NINE

3 WEEKS LEFT

My days are numbered in here. Just twenty-one days left. Three Tuesdays.

Three hours left with you.

In neutral territory, anyway.

When I drop this bomb, you’ll finally know everything, and I’m scared of what the impact will be.