Page 95 of Mad Girl

Unfortunately, my shaky demeanor—along with the placement of my body—gave my dad all the information he needed. He narrowed his eyes, gaze dashing over the shelves behind me, then charged over to the bookcase and nudged me aside. I stumbled over my feet. “Dad, you’re acting like a crazy person.”

He went directly to the shelf where I’d hidden those pictures, removed a book, and—after flipping through the pages—tossed it to the floor.

As he reached for another book, I reached for him. With all my might, I tried tugging him away from the bookcase. But he fought me off and nudged me back again.

“You can’t take them!” I yelled. “They’re all I have!”

This, it seemed, only encouraged him to move faster.

“Hey,” John said, walking over to him. “She’s already seen the pictures. She knows. Why take them now?”

“She shouldn’t have them.” Nic tossed another book to the floor. “That’s why.”

“Nic,” John said softly, his tone pleading. “There are better ways to go about this.”

But Nic didn’t care about better. He continued snatching books off the middle shelf of my bookcase, bringing him closer and closer to The Secret History. I would’ve snatched the book myself and locked myself in the bathroom with it, but John blocked my path. And, anyway, when my dad got like this, I never won.

He’d pick the lock.

He’d take the book.

He’d pry those pictures from my cold, trembling hands.

Helplessly, I watched as Nic landed on The Secret History, cracked the book open to the hidden pictures, and plucked them free. Head shaking, he flipped through the photos. “Damn it, John. Why keep pictures of her? Why would you even want to?”

“I thought Elliot might like to see them someday,” John said.

Nic shot a glare at him. “That’s not your decision to make.”

“Dad.” My voice cracked. “Let me keep the pictures. Please.”

“Pictures of her are forbidden in this house,” he said, tucking them behind his lapel. He straightened his jacket, took a deep breath, then jabbed a finger into John’s chest, prodding him back. “Let’s go have that drink—while you show me what else you have hidden.”

Which meant I’d never find the clues I desperately wanted in John’s study. Not ever. Nic would see to that.

John tossed a regretful glance over my dad’s shoulder as they left my room.

You stood inside the doorway, where you’d been quietly watching the whole thing.

I knelt down to the floor to gather the discarded books, unsuccessfully holding back the tears that had been threatening to fall since Nic entered my room. They left hot little trails down my cheeks.

“Hey,” you said softly, kneeling down next to me. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” My hands shook as I gathered the books from the floor and silently berated myself for ever going to the Harrises’ to snoop around in the first place. If I’d stayed at practice that afternoon, I’d never have lost them. Still, I had one thing my dad could never take away from me: the knowledge I looked like my mom.

Like John said: She’s already seen the pictures. She knows.

“No, really,” you said. “He didn’t take all the photos.”

I sniffled loudly. “Yeah, Casey. He did.”

“No,” you insisted. “The picture you showed me of your mum—with the girl who might be my mum? You left it in my room. I still have it.”

“Oh my God,” I said, laughing through the tears. “You’re right.” I dropped the books and sprung forward for a hug, but in doing so, knocked you off balance, causing us both to topple to the floor. You halfway caught yourself with one hand and me with the other, your fingers gripping my waist—but it didn’t stop our faces from coming close. Heart-stoppingly close.

“Sorry,” I said, pulling away.

“Don’t be sorry.” You leaned forward, righting us both, then pulled me close. Against my shoulder, you whispered, “I see what you mean now—and I’m paying attention.”