We Told Six Lies(40)

“Come again tomorrow?”

Blue would leave, taking the stairs slowly, and then she’d hear the door at the top of the stairs open and close. He was leaving more reluctantly, she noticed. Lingering longer. Watching her closer. She met his enthusiasm with her own. She sang louder, lifted her eyes higher, and once, when desperation struck her, she stretched her arm toward him when she reached a particularly intense part of a song. But it wasn’t him she thought about when she sang. It was him. It was Cobain.

She’d recall the way he laughed when she told him she hated ketchup. How he brought her an origami book from the library when she’d said she wanted to try it. She remembered his socks, always mismatched, and his strength—something she craved now more than ever. She remembered his fingers inside of her. She remembered the beat of his heart beneath her hand.

Last night, Blue slipped his own gloved hand through the bars.

She crossed the room as she sang, one foot in front of the other, and slowly, slowly, her arm trembling, she lifted her fingers and touched his own. He held his hand there for only a moment before ripping it back. As if she were the monster here. As if he were the victim.

How close he was to the truth, she thought.

When Molly heard the door each night, she wondered if he would bring her something to eat. Her meals weren’t regular, but he kept her fed, opening the slot in the door quickly, sometimes sliding a tray toward her, sometimes tossing a bag of chips or rolls onto the floor before slamming it closed.

She always thanked him for the food.

She always thought of shoving it down his throat and watching him change colors as he gasped for breath.

On the seventh day, he came down the stairs, and Molly whispered a silent prayer. He stopped at the bottom, hesitated, and then opened the door. He was dressed in the same heavy jacket, dark jeans, boots, and gloves. And that godforsaken mask.

Even beneath all that armor, she thought she recognized his mannerisms. Thought she recognized the way he moved. The way he laid his head on hers, however briefly, the night she hugged him.

She often wondered if Blue and the boy she left behind were one and the same. She wondered, too, whether she would want it to be him. If it were him, what did that say about the relationship they’d had? Even still, wouldn’t she rather it be him than a stranger?

Blue lifted a package in his hand. It was wrapped in brown shipping paper, but it felt like a gift.

He started to move toward her but stopped halfway and dropped it on the floor. Looked away.

Molly stepped toward him and lowered herself to the ground. She kept her eyes on him, and though he was staring at the wall, she knew he watched her in his peripheral vision.

She took the package and brought it back to the bed. Laid it on her lap.

“May I open it?” she asked.

He huffed as if he were angry, but his body language told a different story. He was nervous. Molly felt a victorious thrill course through her. For days she’d endured being down here alone but for the brief moments she’d sung for him. It had felt like an eternity, but she’d taken it without complaint because she was playing the long game. And today, it seemed, her patience would be rewarded.

She slipped her finger beneath the tape and loosened the paper, unfolded it carefully, and exposed what lay inside.

Another dress.

This one in red with sleeves to the elbow.

Though she tried to hide her disappointment, she simply couldn’t. Even as she smiled at him, as she thanked him, the tears threatened to spill from her eyes. She fought the reaction, but only because she remembered what her father said—

No one sympathizes with crying. Not really. What they sympathize with is someone trying not to cry. A mother crying over her sick child isn’t nearly as riveting as a father standing at a podium, asking for someone to find his baby girl, with tears in his eyes that he’s fighting to hold back. That’s what’ll be repeated on newsreels. You understand the difference, Mockingbird?

Blue watched her reaction and then turned sharply away. Stood in front of the wall and pressed his forehead against it. He released a frustrated snarl and then barreled toward her.

Molly dropped the package in fear and raised her hands, terrified he would strike her, or do what she’d been afraid he’d do from the moment he took her.

He grabbed her arm and hauled her toward the door.

“You’re hurting me,” she complained, but he only gripped her arm tighter and hauled her behind him up the stairs. “Stop! Please stop!”

He pulled her faster, and her feet stumbled on the stairs. Molly became intensely aware that what lay at the top of the stairs this time might not be a warm meal. She found herself fighting against him, convincing herself more and more that he intended to kill her. After all of this. After everything she’d done to try and win his trust, he would simply stab her through with a butcher knife. Or bring her to the top of the stairs only to throw her back down.

Blue dragged her through the door at the ground floor and turned left. She spotted another door. The front door. Her heart raced with hope, and she reminded herself to stay calm, though her body ignited with fear.

He pulled keys from his pocket, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.

Then he dragged her outside. Her feet were still bare, and she winced in pain as she stepped across the frosted ground, her steps fumbled because she was still being tugged along. It hit her then, what he would do. He was going to leave her outside. Maybe to die from the cold. Maybe to teach her a lesson that when he gave her a gift, the proper reaction was to rejoice, to sing his praises. Not to fight back tears of disappointment. She shivered from the unbearable cold and from fear.