Page 372 of Mad Girl

I make it sound as if she has a choice, but she doesn’t. I’ll be there regardless. This woman fucking destroyed me two years ago, but I can’t leave her to struggle alone. I’ve come too far to abandon her now.

“Tell me what else you’d like to do when you get out,” I say, shifting her focus to something lighter. “Name the first thing that comes to mind.”

She takes a deep breath. “I want a real cup of coffee. All the coffee—hot, iced, every way it comes. Every day.”

I nod. “Absolutely. We’ll go as often as you like.”

She’s got some of her sparkle back. Those eyes—they’re lighting up her whole face, quickly breaking through my defenses. She’s so subdued in here, a washed-out version of herself that I barely recognize. I can’t even remember the last time she laughed. If I ever hear the sound of Elliot’s laugh again, it’ll probably bring me to my knees.

“And a cheeseburger,” she says.

I smile. “Done. What else?”

“Tea,” she says. “With biscuits.”

“Well, obviously.”

“We never finished Gossip Girl. I still don’t know who she is.”

I press my lips together, trying not to give anything away. “Then we’ll finish it.”

“I also…” Her voice wavers. “I want to find my mom.”

That one throws me. “Find your mum? How?”

“I’m twenty-one now, which means I’ll have access to my trust fund. So I’ll give Nic a chance to tell me himself, and if he won’t? I’ll hire someone to find her.”

“And then what?”

“I’ll go meet her.”

“Don’t you think maybe…that can wait? Until after you’re settled?”

“I’ve waited long enough, Casey. I need these answers.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to understand who I am.”

I can’t fault her there, can I? Even if I’ve learned from experience that the answers don’t always help. Sometimes they just leave you hollow, wondering if they were ever worth finding in the first place.

“What if the answers hurt you?” I ask.

“I still need them,” she says. “The same way you needed the truth about everything—even though it hurt you.”

The memory of that horrible night flares inside me. The picture of her in Michael’s bed. Her tear-streaked face. How small and battered she looked, shivering in my jacket.

Her hand, pushing me back.

That’s the part I can’t stop replaying. I backed her into the car. Raised my voice. Made her flinch.

I weaponized my pain instead of walking away—exactly like my adoptive dad does.

That night, I became him. With her—the woman I love.

And I’ve been haunted by it ever since.

“I also want us to talk more,” she says. “I’d like to try…being more open with you.”