We Told Six Lies(68)

So she’d grasped his face and said, “There you are.”

His cheeks felt rough in her hands. She’d wanted to kiss the look of surprise off his mouth. She would have done anything to put a leash on that beast. But it was her in the end who wore the collar. Because she fell in love with him. She fell apart for him.

That heart she protected so fiercely—her compass—guided her to him now. Every day. Every night. And so after that night in the abandoned house, she knew she couldn’t manipulate him any longer, even if it meant heading out on her own without the resources she needed. Even if it meant forgetting her plans to take the cash he planned to steal and disappear.

She could have gotten away with it, too. She’d already told everyone they’d broken up. His insistence that they were still together would make him seem untethered. The police would believe the strange, quiet kid had taken the money, and that his ex-girlfriend had left, in part, to get away from him. Even if they did believe she was involved, she’d be long gone, and they’d have a perfectly good suspect to take the fall.

The thought made her feel like shit, like maybe she was her father’s daughter after all if she could let this happen, but she was fighting for survival. Because if she’d stayed with her mother in that house, well…the dark thoughts that plagued her would have eventually done her in.

In the end, she had left the city, left Cobain, because she was slowly ruining him. She’d seen the changes. The silent, forgotten boy changing into someone who would stop at nothing to pursue her happiness, and his own.

She’d seen the way he looked at her.

At first, with fascination. And then lust.

And then…with something fiercer.

Protectiveness.

Love.

For once, Molly had cared about something more than her survival. She cared about the way he smiled, though he hated when she forced it out of him. She cared about the way he chewed his fingernails to bits, and the way he’d grab her face and scratch it with the dark stubble on his jawline until she squealed. She cared about his genuine heart. And his hands, warm on her body. And his addiction to ketchup, even though the stuff was mostly sugar, and she’d told him that a dozen times.

She cared about the guarded way he looked at the world.

And the way he’d trusted her so entirely, though she’d done little to deserve it.

She cared about Cobain.

She loved Cobain.

And so she had left him before he did something disastrous. It seemed that she wasn’t her father’s daughter after all. At least not in totality.

What had it accomplished, though?

What had she done to them both by leaving?

Blue placed his hand on her arm and led her up the stairs and into a room she’d never seen before. Her eyes fell on the bed, blankets rumpled, a bedside lamp made of glass that reflected her numbness. There was a pile of clothes on the floor, and an oil painting of a nude woman that would bring Cobain both happiness and frustration—happiness because he loved art, frustration because he didn’t understand it and feared he never would.

Blue led Molly to a closet and threw open the doors. He pulled a string, and light poured over a closet packed with T-shirts, blouses, slacks, a few pairs of jeans, and then…a dozen or more dresses. They belonged to an older woman—she could tell from the fabric and patterns. But there were a few that even a young girl like herself would worship.

Molly wished she could meet the woman who would keep such lovely things at a cabin in the middle of the woods. Did Blue know her?

Molly’s eyes shifted to him. He waved a tired hand toward the closet, indicating she should pick for herself this time.

How kind.

She was allowed to choose her own funeral garb.

She thumbed through the hangers until she found an emerald green dress. It was floor-length with an empire waist and capped sleeves. It would match her eyes.

She pulled off the dirtied striped dress she wore and threw it to the floor. And though she didn’t care if he was, she glanced over to see if he watched her.

He did.

Her eyes moved to the bathroom. “I want to take a shower.”

He tilted his head as if in a question.

“Without restraints,” she clarified.

He thought about her request and then nodded. When she tried to close the door between them, though, he grabbed it and shook his head.

He turned around, indicating that he wouldn’t watch.

When she removed her underwear and bra and stepped into the warm water, a gasp of ecstasy escaped her. She was able to wash her hair and her body without wrestling plastic cords like some marionette in a stage comedy.

The terrycloth towel felt like a cloud around her torso when she was done, and she felt—for the first time in a long time—happy. Because by giving him the control he sought to regain, she was actually taking a piece for herself. It was a gamble, she reminded herself. But where was the fun in living without it?

That was her father talking.

Molly slipped on the dress and took her time braiding her hair off to one side. Then she pulled open a drawer and rummaged for the makeup she suspected she would find. It was old and caked, all of it, but the pigment remained strong, and so she rubbed blush into her cheeks and swept lipstick across her mouth. She even found eyeliner with enough life left to give her the dark, dangerous look she sought.

When she appeared in the doorway, Blue rose to his feet.