We Told Six Lies(47)

“My dad…my dad went down to this stream to try and fish. He thought just because he bought a pole that he could somehow summon the knowledge to use it. My dad was good at…people,” she admitted. “But this was nature, you know? And he didn’t have the patience for it.”

She giggled, surprising herself.

Even Blue paused, looking up at her cautiously.

“He called me down there to try fishing because he wasn’t having any luck. I was younger, probably only twelve or so, and there were all these geese down by the water. They’d been slowly moving closer to where he was. Out of curiosity, maybe, or because there was a nest nearby. I don’t know.

“I was afraid to come over because I’d never been that close to geese before.” Molly shook her head. “Anyway, my dad finally came up the hill and grabbed my hand and hauled me to where he was. I had to step over these little stones that crossed this stream to get to an island in the water. I went first, and my dad followed after me. This one goose got closer and closer to him, and my dad, trying to show me just how benign these animals were, waved an arm at it and said, ‘Get out of here.’”

“When he turned around, the goose bit him right on the ass.” She started laughing harder. All the fear she’d held inside these last several days exploded from her chest, and soon she was shaking with laughter. It poured from her body because it was better than crying. “No one made a fool of my father, but that goose sure did. The best part was how mad he was. God, if I could have taken that goose home as a pet, it wouldn’t have wanted for anything.”

Molly laughed again, and she thought she noticed Blue’s stomach suck in, as if he was chuckling, too.

The muscles in his stomach relaxed, and she collected herself.

“They sound like good parents, huh?” she said. “But they weren’t.”

What was wrong with her? Why had she told him that?

Because she wouldn’t be here forever, she reasoned. Because if she had anything to do with it, he wouldn’t be, either. One of them would leave breathing and forget this ever happened. And the other…

“What are you making?” she asked.

Blue didn’t move at first, as if he was contemplating responding at all. Finally, he raised a wooden spoon to show her it was stew.

“It smells good,” Molly said.

Blue tossed the carrots into the pot and moved on to an onion, his eyes occasionally darting to an old, yellowing cookbook. Molly watched him with so many questions poised on her tongue. Why did he take her? Was he simply lonely, and would anyone do? Or was the reason more personal? He didn’t seem to want to harm her. The dresses, the food, the singing—it seemed he valued her in some way, or was beginning to, at least. That could change, she knew. So as much as she wanted to ask, she silenced those thoughts and instead talked to him about her school and the things she wished she could be better at—dancing, painting…singing.

She thought she noticed Blue laugh at the last one.

She told him she never slept without socks at home (true), and that her favorite memory was one of her and her mom going to see a Broadway show (not true). He glanced up at her occasionally, and the tension began to leave her chest. For now, she was safe. But what would tonight bring? Or tomorrow?

She was telling him about the red piano she had as a child and wondering how she would execute the next part of her plan, when Blue released a garbled sound. He hunched over and hissed.

Molly stood up. “What? What is it?”

Blue slammed into the lower cabinets, stood up, and bent at the waist again. He was clutching his hand, blood dripping scarlet-bright onto the floor.

“You cut yourself,” she said, stupidly.

Blue released his hand, looked at it, and slipped to the floor.

She rounded the counter slowly, her pulse thumping inside her wrists.

He held his opposite hand out to stop her from coming any closer.

But she would not listen.

She took a step closer. Then another. He stood up, still clutching that hand to his stomach, watching her. His shoulders heaved, and blood dampened his shirt.

“It’s really bad,” she whispered.

She took a step back. Considered running. Running as fast as she could and not looking back. Would he catch her? If he was this injured, could he?

He could.

He kicked the lower cabinets and turned toward her as if reading her thoughts.

Those painted eyes snapped her back to the moment. He expected her to run. But Molly had plans for him that were much more sinister than merely escaping. Where would the fun be in that?

She closed the distance between them slowly, one foot in front of the other, and in the same moment, Blue saw what she was eyeing.

He didn’t make a move for the knife.

He could catch her if she ran, but he most certainly couldn’t get to the blade before she could.

Her hand spidered toward the weapon. She was toying with him, and he knew it. He backed away from her, his body colliding with the upper cabinets. The pot simmered behind him, meat bubbling in its black belly. The small blade wouldn’t do enough damage to take him down before he reacted, but it would hurt plenty. That’s all she wanted him to see—the threat of more pain.

Her hand hovered over the knife, and Blue pressed himself as far away from her as he could get. His chest heaved, his blood painted the floor, and Molly thought, This could be it.