The Good Girls

Chapter 10

THURSDAY AFTERNOON, MAL PICKED AT the nubby upholstery of a chair in Elliot Fielder's waiting room. Her feet bounced and tapped nervously on the floor. She still couldn't believe she was here—how desperate was she that the only person she could turn to was the therapist who'd pretty much stalked her?

On Tuesday, after Fielder had told her about her dad, he'd begged to come pick her up. But Parker had changed her mind: She didn't want to talk to him right then. And so she'd caught a bus back into Auradon, bummed around for a few hours, and met up with Evie, resolving never to talk to Fielder again.

But she was still struggling to process everything about her dad's death. She couldn't believe he was gone. Really, truly gone. Somehow, she'd expected to feel a different reaction. Joy, maybe, even euphoria. Instead, all she felt was numb—followed by the most pounding headache she'd ever suffered through. And even more annoyingly, she'd started reliving all sorts of awful memories of her dad—his abusive Greatest Hits, if you will. She needed a way to kick him out of her head once and for all.

Which was why she'd ended up back here.
Her phone chirped from the pocket of her hoodie, and Mal jumped. Her skin was clammy with cold sweat. She fumbled for her phone with jittery fingers. "Hello?"

"Where are you?" Evie's voice was worried and tense.

"I'm fine," Mal insisted. She tried to sound steady.

"Why weren't you at the service?"

"What service?"

Evie exhaled. "For Jay."

"You were there?" Mal was in no shape for a funeral. But she couldn't believe Evie had shown her face. It wasn't like Evie was out making social rounds after the mass email about her hoarder mom.

"Yeah," Evie answered. "I mean, I hid out, basically, but I went. And you should have been there, too. It doesn't look good that you've just skipped."

"Who cares?" Mal said. They weren't even suspects anymore.

"I cared!" Evie snapped. "I wanted you there! Mal, we really need to stick together. After everything that's happened—"

Fielder's receptionist appeared in the doorway with an exceedingly sweet look on her face. "Mal Moors? He's ready for you."

Mal covered the mouthpiece with her hand and nodded at the woman. She didn't want Evie to know she was at Fielder's office. Evie would kill her.

"Sorry, I have to go," Mal whispered into the phone.

"But—" Evie began. "Where are you?"
"I'll see you later, okay?"

Mal tapped off the call and slipped the phone back into her pocket. She rose and followed the receptionist into Fielder's large, airy office. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, sitting at his desk, jotting notes on a pad. His lean runner's frame was totally relaxed as he worked. He seemed so harmless and innocent. Not like a stalker at all.

She wanted so badly to trust him again. But how could she get over what he'd done—or how angry he'd been when he'd caught her at his computer?

Fielder's head snapped up, and a smile crossed his face. "Mal! It's so great to see you." He ran a hand through his tousled hair. "I'm just so relieved—so happy—that you're here." He gestured at the chair across from his. "Please, sit."

Mal hesitated. Maybe this was a bad idea. She fought the urge to bolt past him, past the lady out front, through the office door and into the street.

Fielder held her gaze, as if he understood what she was thinking. "It's okay, Mal," he said gently. "It's safe here. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just here to listen."

Mal sat down, but she leaned forward in the chair, ready to leap up at any moment. She stuffed her hands in her hoodie pockets and waited for him to speak.

"I owe you an apology," Fielder began. "And I'm truly sorry for scaring you. For following you."
Mal nodded. "You should be."

"I wasn't stalking you. It's just that—you said you had memory gaps. I was just—God, this sounds crazy when I say it out loud—I was just trying to fill in the blanks for you. With pictures."

Mal squinted. "Uh, that sounds like stalking to me."

Fielder pressed his palms over his eyes. "I know. But I'm telling you the truth. I wasn't trying to do anything . . . inappropriate." He paused for a moment, as if deciding whether to continue, then took a breath. "Look, Mal, I have a confession to make. Technically, I shouldn't tell you this as your therapist, but my mother had a lot of . . . problems when I was growing up." He stopped again, swallowed. "She was an amazing, brilliant woman, but she had a lot of memory gaps, too. Like yours. I wasn't able to help her, and then . . . then it was too late."

He shut his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, they were filled with tears that threatened to spill over onto his cheeks. Mal was astonished. "You remind me of her," he said quietly. "The strong and amazing parts of her. And I guess I just want to do for you what I wasn't able to do for her. But I crossed the line, and I realize that. I'm sorry. So, so sorry."

Mal's chest throbbed, and she realized she was holding her breath. She exhaled sharply. No one besides Evie ever talked to her like this anymore. She had felt invisible for so long. But she mattered to Fielder—that was clear. And that felt good.

"What was she like?" she asked quietly. "Your mom, I mean."

Fielder seemed surprised. He squinted, as if he were seeing his mother again in his memory. "She was sweet, loving. Really fun. She had her issues," he chuckled. "But she was a great mom. She could make even the most boring things, like homework and grocery shopping, into a game. And she was so, so smart. The smartest person I've ever known." He smiled wistfully.

"Then what would happen? How would she just . . . lose time?"

His face darkened. "She would go out for an errand, and then we wouldn't hear from her for a day or so. Sometimes more." He stared at his lap. "I would hold my breath, wondering each time if this would be the time she didn't come back. But eventually, she would walk in the front door. She could never tell us where she'd been, because she couldn't remember—and she seemed frustrated by the questions. So eventually my dad and I stopped asking. We were just happy she came back at all."

Mal hugged a throw pillow from the couch. That sounded a lot like her experience. "Did she ever get help?"

"No. Things were different back then. And she was so strong—she never complained or told us how scared she was. When I got a little older, I tried to talk to my dad and our doctor about it, but we didn't know what to do. And then, one day, she didn't come home."

They were silent as Mal absorbed his words. "Did you ever find her?" He nodded. "Where?" she pressed, suddenly desperate to know.

Fielder flinched. "It doesn't matter. The point is . . ." He trailed off. "I'm sorry, Mal. This has nothing to do with you. We should be discussing your problems right now."

"No, I'm glad you told me." Mal leaned forward, staring into Fielder's eyes.

Fielder shook his head. "You know what? I'm glad I told you, too." He coughed awkwardly. "So maybe this means you'll start coming back for more regular sessions?"

His steady gaze sent a jolt through her, and she looked away quickly. The glint in his eye felt familiar, but she had trouble putting her finger on what it meant. Then, it hit her: It was the way guys used to look at her when she walked through a party. His face had that lit-up, hopeful look even the school's hottest football players got when she agreed to go on a date with them. Attraction.

It was something she used to feel so routinely that she'd always taken it for granted. But then she thought of how terrible her face looked, how damaged and broken she was. There was nothing about New Mal he could be attracted to. She was disgusting.

And yet . . . could he have somehow seen the old Mal, nestled deep inside? Because she knew that somewhere, deep down, that Mal was still in there. And maybe, with help, New Mal could let her out.

She took a breath, meeting his gaze once more. "Yes," she decided. "I'll come back."