We Told Six Lies Read online

  He puts a hand on my back as we walk toward his car, and it should be comforting. It should, but it doesn’t feel that way. He opens my door, and I climb in. I’m suddenly worried that I finally screwed up enough for my father to scream at me. For him to grab me by the shirt and shake me and ask, What’s wrong with you? Instead, he drops down into his own seat, closes his door, and pulls in a long breath.

  He looks at me. “Are you okay?”

  I’m not sure why, but his loving words feel like a dagger to the chest. But why?

  I nod.

  “That was the second time they questioned you, right? Or have there been other times?”

  “No, only those two.”

  He runs a hand over his jawline, thinking. “Listen, next time they ask to speak with you, you tell them no. You tell them to come talk to me or your mom.”

  “Because she’s always available,” I mutter.

  My dad drops his head to the side, looks at me with sympathy that sends needles beneath my skin. “You know your mother loves you. She loves both of us. But she cares about other people, too. The world would be a better place if more people were like her.”

  Shame floods my face, and I try to see my mom the way others do. With relief. With gratitude.

  I just miss her, that’s all.

  “What did they ask you about in there?” my dad asks. “Molly?”

  “Yeah,” I clip. “I gave them some people to look into.”

  He sighs and scratches at his beard. As he stares ahead, the vehicle still cold beneath his hands, I study my father. See the way his shoulders stoop in his faded flannel shirt. He’s thin from long nights at work. From drive-through value meals instead of the ones my mom made when I was younger—apricot chicken and mashed potatoes and southern biscuits. At least, I think I remember meals like that.

  And then suddenly, I’m remembering more.

  A time when my dad sat at the table, chuckling at something my brother said. When my mom refilled my glass and ruffled my hair and Holt kicked me under the table because he made Mom repeat a word that we both knew was slang for masturbation, but she certainly didn’t.

  Dishes clanging.

  Demands to finish soggy salads.

  Giggles when Holt farts at the table, because good God, nothing pissed off Mom more than mysterious, offensive smells.

  And something beneath the table, brushing against my knee.

  A dog?

  Dad starts the car, finally.

  “Did we ever have a dog?” I ask.

  My dad turns slowly to look at me, and I know this was the wrong thing to bring up after admitting to being questioned by police for a second time, but I don’t care.

  “A dog,” my dad repeats.

  “Yeah, did we have one?”

  Dad backs out of the driveway and starts down our streets. Pulls onto the business road off our neighborhood and shakes his head. “No, no dog.”

  I glance out the window, thinking.

  “Are you, uh…are you feeling okay?” he ventures.

  I nod.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you like this,” he adds. His voice is cautious, his tone gentle.

  “Like what?”

  He bites the inside of his cheek. Shakes his head. “You just seem to be a little confused again lately, that’s all. Do you think… Do you think you might want to go back and talk to Dr. Lange? It’d be tougher without insurance, but maybe we could—”

  “No,” I snap. “And I’m not confused. My girlfriend disappeared. That’s enough to make anyone feel a little crazy.”

  “Okay, well.” He hesitates. “So, bad segue here, but I want you to know the police can’t access your medical files without your consent or a warrant. And no way are they getting a warrant when there’s no proof of a crime.” My dad clears his throat. “Your mom and I looked it up, so… If the police ask—”

  “Dad, no,” I say. They’ll never ask because they have no reason to. I did nothing wrong. Now or then.

  Dad tightens his hands on the wheel, nods like he understands how I’m feeling.

  He doesn’t, though, because he’s never been accused of hurting the girl he loves.

  “Your brother has been coming around a lot more often,” he says. “Is he helping?”

  I shrug.

  He opens his mouth once like he wants to say something, and then shuts it. Waits a beat and tries again. “Look, son. You aren’t going to like what I’m about to say, but have you ever wondered whether Molly leaving was a good thing? You seemed like you were getting a little…emotional…with her in your life. And you were doing so well before that.”

  I look at him in disbelief.

  He rushes onward. “It’s not that I didn’t like Molly. It’s that your happiness is our first priority. Your mother and I would do just about anything to keep you happy. Someday, when you’re a parent, you’ll understand—”

  “I wasn’t happy,” I mutter.

  “What’s that?”

  “I wasn’t happy. I was the furthest thing from happy. But Molly, she made me feel that way. She gave me something to look forward to every day. She gave me someone to sit next to, to talk to. She believed I could do big things, and she saw me in a way no one else ever has.” I sigh. “And she drove me crazy because she was so weird. And sometimes it was too much to handle. But I loved that about her, too.”

  My dad absorbs everything I say and remains quiet. Finally, he clears his throat and says, “Cobain, I have to ask you this. I wouldn’t be a good father if I didn’t.” He swallows. “Do you know where Molly is?”

  My head snaps toward him. “What?”

  “If you said something to her, or maybe talked to her before she took off, or if you’ve had contact with her since she disappeared, you’d tell me, right?”

  “Let me out of the car,” I say.

  “Cobain. Son.” He grabs my shoulder. “I know you’re a good kid. If you say you didn’t play a part in this whole thing—”

  “She left a note!” I roar too loudly. Way too loudly.

  “Then why are the police still talking to you?” he counters.

  “Stop the car, Dad.” I don’t like the sound of my voice, because the request sounds more like a threat. And this is my father.

  My dad pulls over. “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t do anything. I was just—”

  I’m out of the car in a flash, walking, and then jogging, in the opposite direction. I glance back a few times and see my dad sitting in the car, his head hanging. Then he starts the engine and drives away, giving me space to breathe.

  There at the end, he said something that twisted my gut into knots.

  Your mother and I would do just about anything to keep you happy.

  What exactly does that mean?

  I can’t shake this terrible sensation that everyone, including my own dad, is looking at me and wondering—

  Did he hurt her?

  Did he take her?

  Does he know where she is?

  I change course and start jogging toward Molly’s house. I want to ask her mom about that letter. I want to see her face when I say her daughter’s name. One way or another, I have to uncover the truth about Molly’s disappearance. I have to find out what happened to her, even if it breaks the last piece of my blackened, shattered heart.

  NOW

  I march up the sidewalk to Molly’s house, wondering if her mom is even home.

  I’m still uneasy about the letter Molly mailed. And I can’t get past that line she included—

  My compass is broken.

  I can’t shake the feeling that her mom knows more than she told the police. What if Molly told her our plan? What if her mom did something terrible to Molly when faced with the possibility of losing the only thing left in her life?

 
; Would she allow herself to be abandoned twice?

  I raise my hand to knock, turning once to see who might be watching. Realize how shady this makes me look.

  First, he took the daughter, they’ll think.

  Then he went back for the mother.

  We always knew he was trouble.

  A car catches my eye, parked a little way down the street. There’s a man sitting inside.

  He’s watching me.

  And I recognize him.

  It’s Molly’s dad.

  Why is he here?

  I can’t let him get away without finding out.

  I turn back to the door. Take two substantial breaths. Close my eyes. Open them.

  And start running.

  I run toward the car, my muscles firing, my body a machine as I cover ground. The guy sees me hurtling toward him. Fumbles with the keys.

  He glances up, his eyes huge.

  “Stop,” I say, running even faster.

  The engine purrs to life, but it’s too late. I’m too close. And I’m not letting him get away.

  He starts to pull away from the curb.

  I land on the hood of his car, my forehead pressed against the glass. The man flattens back against the seat, breathing hard. He’s terrified. If he has any idea where Molly is, then he should be.

  I tap my finger against the glass, point directly at his face.

  “Get out of the car.” My growl sounds terrifying, even to my own ears.

  He shakes his head, goes to grab the steering wheel.

  I leap off the hood of the car and reach through the open window. I grab the wheel and yank it toward the curb. “Just a little gas,” I snarl. “Now.”

  He raises his hands. “Okay, okay.”

  I stand in the street, blocking his exit, ready to throw myself in front of his vehicle should he try to flee. But he doesn’t. He pulls toward the curb.

  I’m there to reach inside and yank the keys out of the ignition.

  I remember my size then. Remember it’s a source of power. Why don’t I use it more?

  “Get out,” I demand.

  He opens the door and stands up. Slams it closed. He’s wearing a sports coat and slacks. Brown shoes that shine. He’s got circles beneath his eyes that I suspect never go away, no matter how much sleep he has. The man looks like a well-dressed cocaine slinger, not at all like the reverend from Molly’s story.

  I step closer to him, and he raises his hands. “What are you doing here? I know you know Molly’s gone.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m just trying to do my job, man. I was going to talk to Molly’s mom for a piece I’m writing, but she kicked me out. So I thought—”

  “Your job?” I say. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  He lowers his hands. “I’m a journalist from Florida. I’m running a story on the family.”

  “So…” I swim a hand through my hair. “So you’re not her dad? When you were taking pictures of us at the restaurant…Molly said…”

  “Her dad?” He releases a nervous laugh. “God, no. Her dad is…” He narrows his eyes at me. “How much do you know about her dad?”

  He seems like he’s digging for information from me now. “She told me about him.”

  “Oh, good, good. Hey, uh, think I could take you out for a meal? Or a cup of coffee? Or maybe get you…” He shrugs. Shakes his head. “A beer?”

  “Why do you care so much about Molly’s dad?” Anger fires through me. “Do you know what happened to Molly? Where she went?”

  “As far away as she could get, I’d imagine,” he says. “Especially once she saw me. I mean, someone was going to figure out where they went. I just happened to get a lead from a teacher at her new school. We went to college together, and he knew I was—”

  “Wait.” I hold up my hand to stop him. “What are you talking about? Molly’s dad was an asshole that walked out on his family. Why would anyone be interested in that?”

  A look of surprise, and then sympathy, washes over the guy’s face.

  “I’m going to back up,” he says, gently. “I’m Nick Parco. I work for the Miami Herald. I haven’t been there long, and I need to make a good impression, right, because newspapers don’t exactly keep journalists around who aren’t breaking major stories.”

  I sigh with impatience, and Nick waves his hands.

  “Right, right,” he says. “Anyway, I thought maybe I could figure out what happened to the wife and kid of Frank Manning.”

  “Manning?” I say.

  “Yeah.” He jabs his thumb toward Molly’s house.

  I think of how Molly and her mother are going by a different last name now—Bates. I wonder if it’s Molly’s mother’s maiden name or if they changed it for a darker, more sinister reason. My stomach churns. I don’t want any more mysteries. I want answers.

  I don’t want to show my ignorance, but I find myself asking, “Who is Frank Manning?”

  “He’s your…girlfriend’s?…dad.”

  I nod to confirm Molly and I were dating. Are dating.

  “Anyway, Frank Manning is the guy that swindled hundreds of people out of their life savings. You might have read about him?” He raises his eyebrows, but I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  “Right, kids don’t read newspapers,” he mutters. “Anyway, this guy who worked for Frank figured out that he was basically running a Ponzi scheme and threatened to tell. Most people would turn themselves in or flee the country. Or, I don’t know, pay the guy off or something. But people close to Frank say he could talk someone into doing almost anything. So, basically, instead of quitting while he was ahead, he decided to convince this poor guy that he was depressed. He, like, I don’t know, changed the chemistry in his brain. Made him question his marriage. His children. His career. Made him question why he was alive at all.

  “So here’s Frank playing the part of the helpful friend while this guy is getting closer and closer to taking his own life. And finally, he just does it. At the office. Just stands on his desk and offs himself.”

  The ground beneath my feet sways.

  Molly lied to me.

  Molly is not who I thought she was. Or maybe…maybe she’s exactly who I suspected she was, and this is the reason why.

  “Frank ended up going to prison anyway,” he continues. “Someone else ratted him out once the police started sniffing around. He’s there for thirty years. Course, that doesn’t help any of the people who lost their money.”

  Nick looks at Molly’s house. “These two were basically run out of town. Their possessions were seized, and their accounts were frozen. But people want someone on the outside to blame. And they’ve got questions. Like, did Frank’s wife know how he was making the money? Did she hide any of it? How often does she talk to Frank now?” Nick shakes his head. “I can only imagine what that guy’s doing to the other prisoners he’s with. Or to the guards. He’s probably building an empire on the inside.” He shrugs. “He won’t talk to me, but I thought maybe his wife would. That’d still be something.”

  I look at Molly’s house, too, and sort through what this means. Do the police know that Molly Bates is really Molly Manning? They must. And what about all those people out there that lost their money, or their homes, or their children’s college funds? Would some of them want revenge? How careful was Molly’s mother when changing their names and covering their tracks?

  My list of suspects just grew to hundreds of strangers. Maybe thousands.

  How am I ever going to find her?

  “So will you?” Nick asks.

  I realize he’s been talking, and I haven’t heard a word he’s said.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind answering a few—”

  “What do you think happened to her?” I ask suddenly. />
  “To Molly?” He thinks about this. “Sounds like she just took off. She probably knew someone had figured out where she and her mom were. But seems like some people think someone might have taken her. It’s an interesting twist in the story.”

  I glare at him, and he shifts under my gaze.

  “What’s she like anyway?” he asks, and I can tell he’s slipping into his fact-seeking role even now. “Is she like her dad?”

  I pull in a deep breath. Release it. “Yeah,” I say. “I think she probably is.”

  “Shit,” he says, and shakes his head. “Well, if someone did take her, and she’s anything like him, then I’m more afraid for the kidnapper than I am for her.”

  PART III

  drain you

  MOLLY

  He visited her three nights in a row.

  Each time, he’d bang once against the door—

  Sing.

  And she’d stand, her white dress dirtied, and sing until her throat grew raw. Molly wasn’t an exceptionally good singer. Quite the opposite, really. But what she lacked in talent, she made up for in emotion. That’s who music was truly intended for—the passionate. Those with things to say which couldn’t simply be said.

  When she grew tired, she’d ask only one thing in return.

  “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.