Page 371 of Mad Girl

For a little while, at least, until they slammed the door shut on my cell.

LETTER THIRTY

2 WEEKS LEFT

Now, it would be remiss of me to end these letters without giving you the most important truth of all.

I can’t pinpoint the moment I fell in love with you. Though, believe me, I’ve given it some serious thought.

Maybe it happened while we shared that cigarette. Maybe it happened when you gave me the ring. Or maybe it happened slowly, over hundreds of hours, while we were stuck inside that dark dungeon of a house, giving small pieces of ourselves to each other.

Regardless, it happened.

It was always real.

It still is—and maybe someday you’ll let me say it out loud.

I love you.

And now I finally understand what that means.

It means letting you see all of me, even if the truth takes you away from me for good.

CASEY

1 WEEK LEFT

Tuesday.

The final Tuesday.

Next week, she’ll be released back into the world.

Back to me.

Whether I’m ready or not.

Elliot sits across from me now, an elaborate side braid draped over one shoulder. Even under fluorescent lighting—even in orange, which is, quite frankly, a disastrous color on anyone—she is still, somehow, insanely beautiful.

But she looks worn. Thinner. Cheekbones a bit sharper than they used to be. Hair fraying at the edges. Her eyes—still the same ethereal green, still capable of undoing me—have lost their brightness, and she’s definitely too pale. I can’t tell if it’s a trick of the lighting, or if she’s become truly malnourished in this godforsaken place—and I worry. Is she eating enough? What kind of food passes for food in here? Does she get enough sunlight? Enough sleep?

I don’t trust what she tells me of jail life, not that she ever tells me much. What I do trust is my own ability to bring her back to optimum health—to put a rosy glow back in her cheeks—when she’s released. The kitchen at Nic’s might look vastly different to how she remembers it, but I still know my way around the place. In addition to making sure her meals aren’t comprised entirely of rubbish, I’d also like to provide a little familiarity in a world that looks nothing like the one she left behind.

More than her physical well-being, this concerns me most. She doesn’t like change, and pretty soon she’ll have to grapple with just how thoroughly everything has changed.

“I can hardly believe it,” I say, reaching for the bracelets on my wrist—even though, as usual, the rather terrifying guard up front instructed me to remove them. “This time next week, you’ll be free.”

“Free,” she repeats, but there’s no spark to it. She stares at the white cinderblock wall over my shoulder, eyes glazing over like she’s about to cry. “What if it’s too much?”

“What do you mean?”

She lets out a shaky breath. “Just—everything. What if I can’t deal?”

I lean forward, more bothered than I want to be by the tremor in her voice. “If it’s too much—and it probably will be, at least for a little while—all you have to do is tell someone. Tell me, and I’ll help you through it. You won’t be alone.”

She nods, a bit calmer now, but she doesn’t look at me. Her fingers twist on the table, a slight tremor in them, too. I hate seeing her like this: scared, unsure, doubting everything.

“Things will look different,” I tell her, because there’s no sugarcoating that. “But Nic’s getting your room ready. He’s had Henriette stock up on all your favorite foods. She’s prepared a special menu for dinners and brunch. And I’ll only be a short distance away—by car, I mean—the walk’s quite a trek unless the weather’s ideal and you’ve got the time. But I’ll stick round the house while you transition back—if you want me to.”