We Told Six Lies Read online

  She crossed the room as she sang, one foot in front of the other, and slowly, slowly, her arm trembling, she lifted her fingers and touched his own. He held his hand there for only a moment before ripping it back. As if she were the monster here. As if he were the victim.

  How close he was to the truth, she thought.

  When Molly heard the door each night, she wondered if he would bring her something to eat. Her meals weren’t regular, but he kept her fed, opening the slot in the door quickly, sometimes sliding a tray toward her, sometimes tossing a bag of chips or rolls onto the floor before slamming it closed.

  She always thanked him for the food.

  She always thought of shoving it down his throat and watching him change colors as he gasped for breath.

  On the seventh day, he came down the stairs, and Molly whispered a silent prayer. He stopped at the bottom, hesitated, and then opened the door. He was dressed in the same heavy jacket, dark jeans, boots, and gloves. And that godforsaken mask.

  Even beneath all that armor, she thought she recognized his mannerisms. Thought she recognized the way he moved. The way he laid his head on hers, however briefly, the night she hugged him.

  She often wondered if Blue and the boy she left behind were one and the same. She wondered, too, whether she would want it to be him. If it were him, what did that say about the relationship they’d had? Even still, wouldn’t she rather it be him than a stranger?

  Blue lifted a package in his hand. It was wrapped in brown shipping paper, but it felt like a gift.

  He started to move toward her but stopped halfway and dropped it on the floor. Looked away.

  Molly stepped toward him and lowered herself to the ground. She kept her eyes on him, and though he was staring at the wall, she knew he watched her in his peripheral vision.

  She took the package and brought it back to the bed. Laid it on her lap.

  “May I open it?” she asked.

  He huffed as if he were angry, but his body language told a different story. He was nervous. Molly felt a victorious thrill course through her. For days she’d endured being down here alone but for the brief moments she’d sung for him. It had felt like an eternity, but she’d taken it without complaint because she was playing the long game. And today, it seemed, her patience would be rewarded.

  She slipped her finger beneath the tape and loosened the paper, unfolded it carefully, and exposed what lay inside.

  Another dress.

  This one in red with sleeves to the elbow.

  Though she tried to hide her disappointment, she simply couldn’t. Even as she smiled at him, as she thanked him, the tears threatened to spill from her eyes. She fought the reaction, but only because she remembered what her father said—

  No one sympathizes with crying. Not really. What they sympathize with is someone trying not to cry. A mother crying over her sick child isn’t nearly as riveting as a father standing at a podium, asking for someone to find his baby girl, with tears in his eyes that he’s fighting to hold back. That’s what’ll be repeated on newsreels. You understand the difference, Mockingbird?

  Blue watched her reaction and then turned sharply away. Stood in front of the wall and pressed his forehead against it. He released a frustrated snarl and then barreled toward her.

  Molly dropped the package in fear and raised her hands, terrified he would strike her, or do what she’d been afraid he’d do from the moment he took her.

  He grabbed her arm and hauled her toward the door.

  “You’re hurting me,” she complained, but he only gripped her arm tighter and hauled her behind him up the stairs. “Stop! Please stop!”

  He pulled her faster, and her feet stumbled on the stairs. Molly became intensely aware that what lay at the top of the stairs this time might not be a warm meal. She found herself fighting against him, convincing herself more and more that he intended to kill her. After all of this. After everything she’d done to try and win his trust, he would simply stab her through with a butcher knife. Or bring her to the top of the stairs only to throw her back down.

  Blue dragged her through the door at the ground floor and turned left. She spotted another door. The front door. Her heart raced with hope, and she reminded herself to stay calm, though her body ignited with fear.

  He pulled keys from his pocket, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.

  Then he dragged her outside. Her feet were still bare, and she winced in pain as she stepped across the frosted ground, her steps fumbled because she was still being tugged along. It hit her then, what he would do. He was going to leave her outside. Maybe to die from the cold. Maybe to teach her a lesson that when he gave her a gift, the proper reaction was to rejoice, to sing his praises. Not to fight back tears of disappointment. She shivered from the unbearable cold and from fear.

  She spotted a lake in the distance. Or maybe it was a pond.

  Blue stopped short of it and all but shoved her ahead of him.

  She turned to look at him, rubbing her arm.

  He raised his arms to the sky as if to say, Well?

  She turned her face heavenward and felt the warmth on her skin, cutting through the cold gusts of wind. The sun felt like being wrapped in blankets fresh from the dryer. It felt like the first moments in bed after a long day, your feet rubbing against timeworn sheets. It felt like the tickle of Cobain’s jaw against her cheek when he’d forgotten to shave.

  Molly turned to Blue.

  “Thank you.”

  He glanced away.

  Courage boiled inside her, and she said, firmly, “You hurt me.”

  It was important that she not tell him what to do. She knew he needed to feel as if he were in control. Before, on the stairs, she’d lost her head to fear, but now she knew better.

  He tipped his head, seemed to look at her arm. Then looked down and away.

  He understood.

  For a fiery moment, Molly considered grabbing the closest stick she could find and seeing how far she could shove it into his throat. She’d delight over the sound of him choking on his own blood.

  Revenge would come in time, she reminded herself, and turned her face to the sky once again.

  “May I walk for a bit?” she asked.

  He seemed to consider her request. Glanced around.

  How close were the nearest neighbors?

  When he nodded, her heart dropped.

  Far, then.

  She turned and led the way. As her toes turned blue, she moved closer to the body of water. Evergreen trees brushed her shoulders, and the smell of decay touched her nose. She sensed things she’d normally taken for granted. The tightening of her skin as goose bumps rose along her arms, and the way the very top of her head felt warm while her body continued to shiver. The feel of dirt rubbing between her toes. And the sounds. Oh God, how she loved hearing the sounds of the forest amplified. The nearby whistle of birds she’d only heard through her closed window. The sound of the water gently lapping at the shore. The sound of Blue’s footsteps behind her, far enough away to give her space, but not so far that she could possibly escape him if she ran.

  Is that why he’d dragged her upstairs before she could put on shoes?

  Molly’s mind raced as she neared the water. What if this was her only chance to escape? What if her plan to manipulate him into releasing her didn’t work? What would she do then? No one would be looking for her after they received her letter. Running would be her only option. The question was when to do it. Now? NOW?!

  She felt her blood kicking through her veins as her heart rate spiked. Adrenaline coursed through her body as she flipped back and forth between running, and sticking to the path she’d forged.

  A clearing lay before them. She had to make a decision. She wouldn’t be able to run once she left the camouflage the trees provided.

  What would her mother do
?

  What would her father do?

  Cobain, she thought to herself. I’m so sorry.

  She ran.

  Blue was after her in an instant.

  She didn’t veer left or right like she’d considered doing. Instead, she ran straight toward the water. It was fifty degrees outside, maybe forty, and it had snowed the night before. But she didn’t hesitate. She ran faster, her feet thumping against the ground, her heart firing in her chest as she stretched her arms forward.

  When her feet hit the water, it took everything she had not to leap backward. Instead, she rushed onward, head back, arms open—possessed.

  When the water reached her waist, the sound of Blue’s pursuit stopped. He wouldn’t come in, she knew. He wouldn’t risk losing his anonymity.

  She laughed, manic, and drove her body farther into the water.

  The water lapped at her breasts. Her shoulders. Her neck. And finally, it swallowed her head with a satisfied slurp.

  She stayed beneath the water for only a moment. But in that moment, she pushed her arms and legs out and floated in the black abyss, a broken butterfly taking flight once more. Then she shot up and sucked in a breath. She filled her lungs until they ached, and then, slowly, she turned her eyes on Blue.

  He watched her.

  She could see the tension in every muscle in his body. And she knew it was because he wanted her to come back. So she did.

  She took one step after another, her toes digging into the mud, the water dripping from her long hair. She held his gaze, firm.

  He would be able to see beneath her dress, she knew.

  Look at me, she thought. Look at me, you fuck.

  Blue allowed himself a moment to gaze at every part of her before turning his head a fraction away.

  For the first time, Molly was confused. Wasn’t this what all men wanted? Wasn’t sex what softened them? What made them break their vows and their spines?

  When at last she stepped onto the shore, he looked back at her face. Seemed to note the way her teeth chattered.

  “I had to feel the water,” Molly said, shivering so hard she was afraid her bones might crack. “I haven’t had a bath in—”

  She stopped when she realized what he was doing.

  Molly sucked in a breath as he pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. Gently, he touched her elbow, watched her face. Guided her toward the house with a touch so light that it bordered on an apology.

  As they walked back in silence, Molly cast her eyes toward him. He may have confused her when he once again didn’t take his chance to ogle her body, but she’d succeeded in her second agenda.

  Molly now knew what he looked like beneath that jacket.

  NOW

  Now that I know the truth about Molly’s father, I’m more determined than ever to figure out where she went. And why she lied. Nixon said I should talk to Coach Miller, so that’s what I’m going to do.

  When Coach sees me standing outside his office, he makes a hard stop, seems to consider turning around.

  “I need to talk to you,” I say.

  He frowns and then says, “All right, kid. Let’s go inside.”

  I take a seat on the other side of his desk, and instead of sitting across from me, he plops down beside me. Removes his baseball cap and runs a hand through his hair. His eyes fall on the mess that clutters his workspace: scattered papers, spilled pens, a Steelers mug, and a photo of him with a toddler I know is his. I look at the kid, at his innocent, smiling face. He’s raising one hand and grabbing his father’s nose. And his dad, Coach Miller, is holding him with both arms. It’d be impossible for him to fall with so much support.

  “You here to talk to me about Molly?” Coach Miller asks.

  I narrow my eyes in surprise. And suspicion.

  Coach sighs and leans forward, puts his forearms on his thighs. “I’m not judging, okay, kid? I don’t know what was going on between the two of you.”

  He must register the confusion on my face, because he says, “Wait, that’s why you came in here, right? The report?”

  “What report?” I ask. “Someone told me I should talk to you about Molly.”

  Coach Miller shakes his head. “Aw, crap, kid. The thing is, there were too many people saying the same thing. I had to turn in what I’d heard. I’m not saying I—”

  Unease crawls across my skin. “What were people saying?”

  “Look, to me, you and Molly seemed pretty happy. I was glad when you found someone to talk to. To tell the truth, I hoped it might bring you into my office one day, so I could get you on the team.” A little smile from him here. It doesn’t last long. “Anyway, I started hearing from some of the kids that Molly wasn’t entirely…happy, you know?”

  “Wasn’t happy about what?” I ask.

  Coach Miller cocks his head.

  “With me?” I ask, stupefied. “With us?”

  Coach Miller leans back, and as a look of sympathy crosses his face, pulsing rage fires through me. How can I turn on him this quickly? This man who brought me a scone from his favorite coffee shop when I told him I’d never had one. This man who grabbed me by the shirt and told me, Come on, kid. I’ll drive you home, okay? when he saw me sitting outside the gym, fuming because someone had taped a photo of a gorilla on my locker.

  “Look, I have to ask, Cobain. Are you sure you were both totally in your relationship?”

  “Yes.” No hesitation.

  He frowns. “Well, I think Molly might have been telling a different story to her friends. Some of the guys on my team, I guess she told them or their girlfriends or whatever that you were coming on a little strong.”

  “A little strong?”

  “Like, maybe you were in it more than she was.”

  “She told people that?” What the hell?

  He shrugs. “I think Molly was trying to find a way to break it to you gently.”

  The breath rips from my lungs. I think about the last time I saw her. Tears on her face. Me gripping her arms. Shaking her.

  Did I shake her?

  “I know when she talked to you, it hurt. It had to have. Am I right?”

  I glance up at him, confused once again.

  “Did you know I was married once?” He nods toward the picture of his kid. “He’s pretty much the only good thing that came out of it. Anyway, when she told me she was leaving, I hung on too long. I even followed her to her new place one day. So I get it, okay? I get it. But I still had to put pen to paper on what these kids were saying.”

  “Wait,” I say, hardly able to process this. “You’re telling me…you’re saying that Molly was telling people that she broke up with me and that I was…what…stalking her?”

  Now it’s Coach Miller’s turn to look concerned. “Stalking? No. Do you feel like you were stalking her?”

  “No,” I say, too quickly. “No.”

  Coach Miller looks unconvinced. “I just wrote down what they said. That Molly didn’t want to be together, and you were being pretty weird about it. That’s all. You have to understand how this school works. If we don’t report every single thing someone—”

  I push up from my chair. The sound of it scraping against the floor startles us both. He rises to his feet, and now he’s staring up at me with this concerned look on his face. But I wish he wouldn’t look at me like that. I wish he’d just hug me or some shit. I wish he’d say, Hey, I believe you.

  “We were in love,” I say.

  He opens his mouth to respond, and I yell, “We are in love.”

  I turn around and kick the chair and then barrel through his door and race down the hallway. Toward the double doors. Out into a world that’s blanketed in gray. It’s always gray. Why isn’t the sun ever out? Where did it go?

  I turn in the direction of my house and start running. I run all the way t
here. Three point two miles—Coach Miller told me when he dropped me off that day. Three point two miles with sweat dripping down my back and down my face. My backpack slaps against my spine the whole way.

  Thwomp, thwomp, thwomp, thwomp.

  I run faster when I see Holt’s truck in the driveway. I somehow knew he’d be here. It’s Friday. He always comes on Fridays, if he comes at all.

  I throw my backpack on the couch and power toward his room, shoving the door open. He’s standing with his back to me, slipping something inside a shipping envelope. When I realize what it is, my entire body trembles.

  He turns around. He’s got my notebook safely inside that envelope. He’s a few stamps shy of sliding it in a mail drop.

  I wince against the knowledge of what this means.

  First the police.

  Then Nixon.

  Then my dad.

  Then Coach.

  Now my brother.

  They all suspect me.

  I punch my brother in the stomach, and he doubles over.

  “Stand up,” I say between clenched teeth.

  “I wasn’t going to send it,” he groans.

  I scoff. “Liar. You have it in your hand right now, you asshole. What? Were you going to send it to the police?”

  He straightens slowly, one hand over his stomach, the other still clutching the package. He pulls in two steadying breaths and says, “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know,” I repeat.

  Holt opens his mouth like he’s going to add something. Closes it. He hesitates too long.

  I shove him, and he falls back onto the bed. He gets to his feet quickly, though. Quicker than I thought he could move.

  “Fine. I was thinking about sending it. And you know why? Because it’s weird,” Holt says. “Your girlfriend takes off, leaves a note, and you keep this notebook with all these suspects.”

  “I told you why. And you”—I point at him—“you acted like you understood.”

  “I told you to stop obsessing, that’s what I said.”

  “Why are you always here?” I ask suddenly. “You think I need you here?” I study him. “Yeah, you do. You think I need you here. Arrogant prick.”