Page 93 of Mad Girl

“I’d rather go home.”

“Why?”

“I don’t feel comfortable snooping where I don’t belong, and I don’t approve of you doing it, either.”

“Okay, Mr. Secret Identity. You stalked your own brother until you’d slithered your way into our lives.”

“Slithered?” You pulled a face, hands jammed inside your pockets. “Bit harsh.”

“I’m just stating facts here.”

“Tell me what you’re looking for,” you said through clenched teeth, “and I’ll consider it.”

“That picture I showed you of my mom? Michael found it hidden in one of these books and gave it to me this past Christmas. It’s the first picture I’ve ever seen of her—even though I’ve been asking to see a photo of my mom for years. I’ve asked everyone—my grandparents, the Harrises, my dad—for a simple description of my mom, and no one ever bothered to tell me I look just like her. If John had pictures of my mom hidden in this room, maybe he has more hidden—something with her full name on it, maybe, or a clue that’ll make it easier for me to look her up myself.”

You considered this. “Have you ever thought that maybe there’s a reason behind all the secrecy? That maybe they’ve hidden these things to protect you?”

Of course I had. And I didn’t care. The more they evaded my questions, the more I needed to know why. What weren’t they telling me? What was the dark, mysterious thing my dad didn’t want me to know about my mother?

“Sometimes the answers we want most,” you said, now staring at a photo of John and Michael on Christmas Day, five-year-old Michael—in a pair of plaid Christmas PJs—sitting in John’s lap, grasping one of his presents, both of them laughing, “are the ones capable of hurting us the most.”

“Okay, I don’t have time to be reasonable right now,” I said, growing more anxious by the second. “I have thirty minutes until Bree gets home from fencing practice. If you aren’t going to help me, just go.”

I turned to the bookcase and grabbed a legal encyclopedia that must’ve weighed five pounds. With a sigh, you ambled up behind me and reached for a volume off the shelf above my head, your chest briefly making contact with my shoulder blade.

We’d searched through only a handful of books before we heard the telltale creaking and clopping sounds of someone on the stairs—which ran parallel to the study. We froze.

“Shit,” I whispered.

As we put our books back, John appeared in the doorway. “Elliot,” he said, drawing out my name, “what are you doing in here?”

“I need to borrow a book for school. English Lit. Paper due next week. Very important.”

His blue eyes flicked to the bookcase before returning to me. “A paper on the law? For English Lit?”

“Did I say English Lit? I meant U. S. History. Specifically, like, certain laws that were put into place by our founding fathers.” Not the best explanation, but I hoped it would do.

“I see,” John said, clearly suspicious, arms crossed over a white t-shirt, like the kind guys often wear under their dress shirts. “Hey, have you taken anything from this study recently?”

“Like what?”

“Anything at all.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said innocently.

“I think you do.”

“I really don’t, though.”

“Elliot, you know exactly what I’m talking about, and I need them back.”

“Need what back?”

“Cut the shit, okay?” John stepped forward.

Flinching, I stepped back, nearly colliding with you, but you stopped me with your hand. John—normally the picture of calm and composure, even in a crisis—didn’t act like this. Maybe the change in him concerned you, too, because you pressed your fingers to the small of my back and kept them there.

“One of those”—John stopped, eyes squeezed shut—“something you took is very important to me. And you should never have⁠—”