We Told Six Lies(52)

But whatever his reason was for taking her, it was changing.

It was daylight now, and Molly stretched toward her bathroom window, causing small bruises to bloom along her wrists. She was so close to the glass. Six inches. Maybe less. She did this several times a day. It kept her sane to attempt a quiet escape, even if she knew it was futile.

She curled her fingers toward the world beyond—toward that rectangular painting of blues and browns and snowfall whites. Her chin trembled as she thought of him. She remembered what she’d told Rhana about what had happened between her and Cobain, and how it split her heart into two irreparable pieces to do so.

She was a survivalist, and so she tried to forgive herself. All she’d wanted was freedom. Freedom from her father. And her mother. But the closer she got to Cobain, the further she tumbled into a cardboard box that held only her. Only him. Suddenly, she didn’t want freedom if he wasn’t a part of that new equation.

But was that really freedom?

She’d seen what she was doing to him, of course. He was unraveling. At first a quiet, lonely boy who kept his head down, and then, slowly, a man who fought for what he wanted. He’d had cracks, her Cobain. He’d filled them with mortar, but she…she had chiseled away at them until his entire body became unstable.

She dreamed of him every night now. And when she woke, she cried.

Her arms dropped to her sides, and she fought to keep herself contained. Her eyes lowered, and she stared at her wrists. At the tiny bubbles of blood rising beneath her bonds.

Molly heard the door unlock behind her, and she twirled around, hiding her arms behind her back.

Blue stood in her doorway, seeming more confident than he had in the past.

He walked toward her with powerful steps, but she didn’t shrink away. She knew how he felt about her.

Blue cut the restraints and waved her toward the stairs.

When they arrived in the hallway, he opened his arms as if to say—left or right? Living room or kitchen?

Molly stepped to the left because she remembered that’s where the front door was. He followed after her and stood in the doorway as she examined the room. A floral couch. An empty mantle. A coffee table. A lamp without a bulb. All of it suffocating under a blanket of dust. All of it devoid of life.

She turned to look at Blue, her head full of wishes.

He went to the front door and double-checked the lock, a bolt that would only open with a key. She was certain he did it only to show her she couldn’t escape. He touched a flat hand to his chest and jabbed a thumb at the kitchen. His hand was still bandaged, but it didn’t bleed through anymore. He hadn’t cooked anything since his injury, and she hoped that changed today. Her stomach rumbled at the thought of a warm meal. A glass of milk. Normally, she didn’t like milk. But the thought of it now, creamy and thick and cold in a tall glass, made her mouth water.

Molly started to follow him, knowing he would never leave her unattended. But he stopped and held another hand out. Waved it around the room.

Stay here, if you want.

Her jaw went slack as he left the room. Almost immediately, she was searching the space again, looking for a way out. As the clanging of pots and pans colliding reached her ears, she rushed to the first window she saw and attempted to lift the glass. It was painted shut, and so she ran to the next window. And the next. Four in all, and none lifted so much as an inch. She couldn’t break one, or he’d hear, so something else, then.

Her eyes snapped to the fireplace. Could she climb up it?

She began to cross the space in a frenzy when a bang sounded through the room.

Her heart soared into her throat as she whipped around, expecting to find Blue. But it seemed he was still engrossed in cooking. Molly went to the nearest window, looked out, and found the source of the sound she’d heard. Her eyes fell upon a bird on the ground, beak opening and closing. It flapped its wings vigorously at first, and then slower. And then not at all.

What window had it slammed into? Her eyes went to the door again, and this time she noticed the small rectangle of glass above it. The same size and shape as the one in the basement.

She took five quick steps toward the kitchen and listened.

What sounded like humming drifted from where he worked.

Molly raced toward the couch and shoved it across the floor, her pulse beating so hard she was afraid she’d faint. Would he ever bring her above ground again or take his eyes off her? She couldn’t gamble losing this chance for a head start.

She leaped onto the couch and reached for the handle on the window and cranked the lever.

It opened.

Tears welled in her eyes, and her heart exploded with the possibility of escape. Maybe she wasn’t her father after all. Maybe she could just leave and never look back. Tell the cops what happened like a good girl. Forgive. Forget.

Her true self scoffed even as she cranked the lever faster and faster. As she grabbed the edge of the window and lifted herself off the couch. Her feet pin-wheeled against the wall as she pushed herself higher.

She got her shoulders through. Then her chest. She could feel the cold. Could hear the birds.

She reached her stomach, and though she heard a noise behind her, she bit back a scream and struggled the rest of the way through. Fell headfirst toward the ground. She broke her fall with her hands, and pain rocketed up her arms.

Didn’t matter.

She was on her feet.

Running, running, running.