We Told Six Lies(28)

She’d squeezed her eyes closed as if fighting back tears. Or maybe she wasn’t pretending. Either way, he relented. He marched up the stairs with that letter in his hand, slamming the door behind him.

Her eyes fell on the dress, and she walked toward it. She held it up to her small frame. It would be too big, but she would wear it. Of course she would. He was treating her as if she were sacred, and that was something she didn’t dare challenge. What was the alternative? Submitting in this way was a form of fighting. And Molly was a born fighter. Came from a long line of warriors dressed in human flesh.

So she pulled her dirtied sweater over her head and slipped her jeans off, slowly, one leg at a time, pointing her toes, arching her back…just in case he was watching. Yes, she would be beautiful. And sacred. But she would find out what he really wanted.

That, he would try to hide.

But she would figure it out.

Of course she would.

She thought of Cobain as she dressed. Remembered the day he’d taken her on a proper date. How nervous he’d been. And how proud. He’d spent nearly every cent of his first paycheck buying her a strawberry salad with a strip of flaky pink salmon on top. She’d ordered the cheapest meal she could find on the menu because she didn’t want him doing this for her. She’d have rather he spent his money on himself, or at least saved it. Yes, that’s what she really wanted—for that money to be secreted away for use at a later time. For it to be…available.

But she saw how happy it made him to do something for her, and so she’d eaten her salad, and she’d groaned with pleasure after every bite, though she despised fish. She’d watched him that night, the way he held his shoulders back. The way he fidgeted in his father’s charcoal-colored suit jacket, much too small for him. The way he’d flicked his eyes to those around him, picking up subtle clues on how to eat correctly in a place like that.

Molly could have recited every last etiquette rule even if she were fast asleep. But she was too busy feeling guilty. Guilty for what she would do to this boy she was quickly falling for. Try as she might to hold on to that ledge, fingernails digging into the brick-and-mortar, she would lose her grip eventually to Cobain. And she’d tumble headfirst into his arms and forget all about what she had to accomplish.

Survival.

Or love.

Did he realize that’s what he was forcing her to choose between?

That was never part of the plan.

After dinner, but before dessert, he’d complimented her on her dress. As if he was just now remembering this was important. His face scrunched, and he said, “You look amazing in that dress. Sorry, I should have… White looks good on you.” He swallowed. “I like the lace.”

Molly slipped her arms into the dress she held now. Different, but similar. She pulled the body down over her torso and wiggled her hips until it fell to her ankles. In a moment of clarity, or perhaps empowerment, she slipped off her tennis shoes and socks. Stood in bare feet on the cold concrete floor.

She tucked her shoes, socks, and the clothing she’d removed under her bed and stood facing the door. She knew he’d come. He said he would. She was thankful the dress was long enough to hide how her legs shook. She was thankful for the length of the sleeves so he wouldn’t see how goose bumps rose along her arms. She must remember, above all else, that if she appeared to be prey, he would become a hunter.

It was simple biology.

When he came for her, her goal would be to get answers to as many questions as possible. But she’d start with these:

What did he want from her?

Did she know him?

It was too soon to question why he’d taken her, of all people. Besides, humans always thought things were about them. So they looked internally. Even when involved with another person, they still looked inward, but dismissed the fact that the other person was doing the same.

This kidnapping. It wasn’t about her.

It was about him.

She had to remember that. Daddy would tell her she had to remember that.

Molly paced the floor for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes before she heard the sound of him. Footsteps on stairs. It confirmed what she already knew from the position of the window. She was being held below ground.

The slot in the door opened.

“You will come with me now,” he said, still using that strange voice changer.

A chill rushed down her back. She thought of Cobain again. Wished with every fiber of her being that she hadn’t betrayed him. Wished, wished, because then he would be with her, and this wouldn’t be happening.

The door opened, and even as she raised her head and bit down to keep her chin from quivering, a single tear raced down her cheek.

The guy—Blue, he said to call him—stopped in the doorway and studied her.

She said to herself, I am not afraid of you. And she forced a smile onto her face. A small one, so as not to overdo it.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” she said.

He’d started to move toward her but stopped when she said this. He tilted his head in a question, and those painted eyes with the mesh covering peered beneath her skin and muscle and bones to the heart that jackhammered in her chest.

She caught the unbelievable nature of what she’d said, and added, “I thought you might leave me down here forever.”

He seemed to accept this as reasonable and grabbed her arm.