We Told Six Lies(62)

She grabbed the cage and opened the door. Watched with delight as the bird flew around the room, knocking against the walls, searching for a place to perch. It came to rest on the table near her bed.

“That’s good,” Molly said, hysterical. “Stay there.”

Her eyes fell on the cage, and before she could entertain a rational thought, she grabbed the thin, brittle bars and pulled on them. When they didn’t budge, she sat on the floor, put the cage between her boots, and pulled backward with both hands.

The wire bent to her will.

She laughed and pulled harder. Pulled until she was sure the metal would slice right through her skin like a fork piercing melon. When the wire broke away from the cage, the momentum threw her backward. Her head clunked against the concrete floor, and she had to bite down against the pain.

She checked her head for blood. Checked her hands to ensure they still worked.

Then she bounded to her feet and raced toward the window. She got as close as she could, her hip brushing the sink, and then she got to work on the wire.

She spread it out, long and hopeful, and stretched it toward the window. It tapped against the hook that opened the window, but the wire gave way when she pressed.

The bird produced a small sound behind her, and she said, “Don’t worry. I’m going to get it.”

Molly pulled the wire toward her and bent the end until it made a hook and then reached back out with it. It took an infinite number of tries until, at last, it hooked around the handle and stayed put while she guided the wire to the right.

The window unlocked and popped open. Just a fraction of an inch, but Molly hung her head with triumph and rejoiced.

Then she stuck the wire back out and slammed it against the glass. Over and over again so that it opened a little farther each time.

The door at the top of the stairs opened, and panic lit up her insides so that she glowed like those lightning bugs beyond her rectangular porthole to the world.

Molly raced toward the bird. She wanted to release it with her hands. To feel the flutter of its wings as she launched it toward safety. But the bird needed no prodding and flew on its own. It bashed against the walls twice more as footsteps thundered down the stairs. Then it reached the bathroom.

As the downstairs door flew open, the bird perched on the toilet.

“Go!” Molly screamed and ran at it as Blue reached for her.

The bird flew.

The bird flew straight out that open window and sailed toward the winter sun.

Blue’s arms came around her, and she laughed like a lunatic. Laughed until her body slumped to the ground. He released her and raced toward the window. When the lock slid back into place, the last of Molly’s laughter fell away.

He turned his eyes on her in time to see her rise to her feet. For her to hold that wire in front of her like a child’s toy sword.

Her face twisted with desperation, and she said, carefully, so very carefully, “You were afraid of what freeing the bird meant.” She motioned toward the window. “But I’ll be here to—”

Blue rushed toward her, and she raised the wire, though she knew it would do nothing to stop him. He shoved it aside, and as it clattered to the floor, he grasped her face in his hands, breathing hard as he stared down at her. He was a foot taller than she was. Maybe more than a foot. Maybe his shoulders brushed the stars at night.

“Don’t,” she said, but she didn’t know what she was trying to stop.

He released her roughly and marched toward the door. Slammed it closed.

Later, much later, as Molly listened for the sound of her bird, she heard a different noise. She jolted up in bed and turned to see Blue outside her window. He lowered his face and peered at her from the other side of the glass.

Then he leaned back, and a thick board took the place of his silhouette.

She heard the sound of nails.

And she knew that, though she’d tried to spin that bird flying away as a symbol of his own impending, contrived suicide, he’d interpreted it much differently.

Molly was becoming quite important to Blue, she realized.

And as slender gray nails were driven into the siding, she learned just how afraid he was of losing her.





NOW


I wake to flashing lights.

They’re painting my room red, red, red.

My dad shoves my bedroom door open. “Cobain! Cobain, get dressed!”

I pull on a T-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes and try to think clearly. But I can’t because I just woke up and my dad is yelling and our front door is exploding and I know, I know, that this is it.

My mom appears in the hallway, grabbing at my shoulders, asking what I did.

I don’t know what I did. I don’t know, I don’t know.

I hear a sound at the back door and realize they’re about to break the door down. That’s how serious they are.

I run to the front, shouldering my dad out of the way, telling my mom I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Even though I can’t be sure what I’m sorry for.

An officer I don’t recognize reaches in and grabs me as soon as the door is open.

“Cobain Kelly?” she says. “You’re under arrest for the kidnapping of Molly Bates. You have the right to remain silent.”

Cold cuffs snapping around my wrists.

“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”