Letter Thirteen #3
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—”
“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.
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.”
It felt so validating to hear someone say that.
When we drew apart, you brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “Are you okay?”
My heart fluttered at the intimate gesture—at your gaze, unbearably close, still searching mine. I swiped the tears away and said, “I’m fine.”
But I wasn’t.
At dinner that night, long after you’d helped me clean the mess in my room, I waited for my dad to acknowledge what he’d done—to acknowledge my feelings, at the very least. When he didn’t, I brought the incident up myself.
“On my birthday, I asked you if I looked like her, and you lied. I look almost exactly like her, Dad. Why didn’t you want me to know that?”
Nic gently set down his fork and knife, took a generous swig of wine, then stared ahead for several silent, uncomfortable seconds. “Because it’s not important. You look like you, and you’re beautiful. How was school today?” he asked, picking up his cutlery.
“It’s important to me,” I said, trying to keep my voice even, “and you know that.”
With a sigh, he dropped the cutlery again, this time letting it clang against his plate. “The girl you saw in those pictures? She was a lie. But you,” he said, wrapping his fingers around my wrist. “You’re the truest thing I’ve ever known.”
See? This was Nic’s M.O.
Distract from the bad—the lies, the taking, the secrets—by filling my head full of this shit. You’re beautiful. You’re perfect. You’re all I ever wanted, you know that?
He thought he could keep me afloat with love when what I really needed was a life raft. Something reliable to hold onto. An explanation. A reason for all the secrecy.
The truth.
And you couldn’t have possibly understood what was happening, Casey, because at that point in time, I prided myself on hiding these things from you.
But Nic understood, his gaze dropping to my clenched fist, knowing without seeing that I was digging my fingernails into my palm.
I bet he even felt it with his fingers still circling my wrist. The trembling.
The hurting. The barely suppressed rage.
In fact, Casey, that’s why he held my wrist. He knew better than anyone what I was capable of.