Page 94 of Mad Girl

“Elliot? Casey? What’s going on?”

It was my dad, standing in the doorway, the top button of his dress shirt undone, a navy polka-dotted tie dangling from his hand.

I pulled a face. “Dad? What are you doing here?”

A look passed between him and John. “I stopped by to have a drink with John after work. What are you two doing here?” He lifted his wrist, glancing down at his watch. “Shouldn’t you still be at tennis practice?”

“Coach called the practice early.”

“So if I call him,” Nic said flatly, “that’s what he’ll tell me?”

“Okay, fine,” I groaned, rolling my eyes. “I lied about having period cramps because I didn’t want to be there, and now I’m trying to borrow a book for school. Why am I being interrogated by everyone right now?”

“She took something from here,” John said, turning to my dad.

“Took what?”

“It’s my fault. I should’ve chosen a better place to hide them.” John swallowed hard. “Also, I should’ve told you when I first noticed them missing a few weeks ago.”

Nic’s gaze flashed. “Noticed what missing?”

John stepped close and whispered the answer in Nic’s ear—I guess on the off-chance I actually didn’t know what he was talking about. Regardless, Nic drew back, hazel-green eyes wide with alarm. “What the fuck, John?”

John winced. “I know.”

My dad turned, quickly strode into the entryway, and yanked open the Harrises’ front door. I ran after him.

“Dad!” He stormed down the sidewalk, digging our house key out of his pocket. “Dad, stop! Dad! Wait!”

At our front door, he paused to push the key into the lock, giving me a chance to catch up with him. “Dad,” I said, laying my hand on his arm, but he shrugged me off and unlocked the door. “Dad, please. Stop.”

Panic twisted through my gut as he headed straight for the staircase, neglecting to disarm the alarm system—now beeping loudly throughout the house. Too fearful to care, I didn’t disarm it, either, choosing instead to follow him upstairs. Halfway up, the beeping stopped and footsteps sounded behind me.

“Nic.” John’s voice. John, following us up the stairs.

But Nic couldn’t be stopped. Nic wouldn’t listen. He strode into my room and jerked open my desk drawer. Pens. Highlighters. Sticky notes. He rifled through everything, then emptied the drawer’s contents onto the desktop. He even slid his fingers along the inside of the drawer—underneath it, too.

“Oh my God.” I walked over to my bookcase and stopped in front of it. “You’re literally insane, Dad. Stop.”

“Tell me where they are,” he said, turning to point at me. “Or I’ll turn this entire room upside down. Tell me where they are. Now.”

“Nic,” John said, entering my room. “Calm down.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” I said, but my voice wavered.

“Yeah?” He moved to my nightstand, where he wrenched both drawers loose and dumped everything onto my bed. John—using the quiet, calm, soothing voice he normally reserved for the distraught or, in this case, the crazy—tried talking Nic down while I stood back and watched, trembling in my tennis uniform.

When he didn’t find the pictures, he faced me again, rubbing his mouth, one hand propped on his hip. “Tell me where they are.”

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

“I’ll go through everything, Elliot. I can do this all night.”

“Please don’t,” I begged. “This is ridiculous.”

“Nic.” John put his hand to Nic’s chest, catching his gaze and leveling him with a look. “Let’s go have a drink.”

“No.” Nic shoved John’s hand away and studied me, still standing by the bookcase, my back pressed to the shelves, arms wrapped tightly around my body.