by Rysa Walker
“Yeah, right,” Daniel scoffs, heading toward the door.
Aaron is still typing, and it looks like he’s moved on to a different website now. I close my eyes and rub my temples, wishing I had something to drown out Molly’s noise.
We’re working on it, Molly. Could you just calm down please? What is your problem?
Even without hearing her, I know her response would include that she’s stuck behind a wall inside someone else’s head. But I can’t really help that.
I hear Daniel in the hallway a few minutes later. His voice is angry. A woman’s voice, also angry and also familiar, responds, and I tense up automatically.
But it’s not the low tones of Dacia Badea. I place the voice right before the door opens and Daniel tugs his sister Taylor in after him.
“. . . to go home.”
“I did. And when Mom called, she said I could go back out as long as I’m home by midnight.”
Aaron’s eyes stay on the screen as he asks, “You told her where you were going?”
“Sort of. I said I was going to see Popsy.” She gives her grandfather a big smile and crosses over to where he’s sitting. Then she parks herself on the arm of his chair and plants a kiss on his cheek.
“Taylor, you know damn well you shouldn’t be here.” Sam’s comment doesn’t sound even remotely like a rebuke, however. Taylor very obviously has him wrapped around her well-manicured pinky.
“I haven’t seen you in three entire days. And tomorrow’s Saturday. No school, so I still have lots of time.” She looks across the room at the couch where Deo and I are sitting. Her eyes linger for a minute on Deo, which is pretty much the norm for most females between the ages of ten and thirty and sometimes even older. Quite a few guys, too. Then she shifts her gaze toward me, and I see anger or maybe it’s just hurt in her expression. Whatever it is, it feels unfair. I haven’t done anything to her.
She looks back over at Aaron. “What did I miss? And don’t any of you tell me this is none of my business. If it has to do with Molly, it’s my business. If it has to do with Dad, it’s also my business. And you know I’ll find out either way. I always do.”
Aaron, Sam, and Daniel sigh. It’s not quite in unison, but it’s pretty close, and there’s an almost identical expression of defeat on all three faces. Taylor flashes a little victory smile and then repeats, “So . . . what did I miss?”
“Well, apparently Molly has something to tell us,” Sam says. “But Anna here had a little run-in with a woman at the police station who she thinks was trying to read her mind. Or Molly’s mind. Did you finish looking around, Daniel?”
“I didn’t see anyone out there besides Taylor,” Daniel says. “The building appears to be empty, and it’s only our cars in the lot. I can’t guarantee she’s not hanging out at the 7-Eleven, Popeyes, or whatever. But I really don’t think she’d be able to read you unless she was close by. And you could always rebuild your mental wall if you feel anything, right?”
I’m not sure what it is about Daniel’s expression that’s bugging me. I don’t think he’s lying about the lot being empty, but something seems off.
Still, he’s probably right. And since God only knows what the woman managed to find out from Deo, it may be a moot point anyway.
“I can’t find any information on a Daciana Badea,” Aaron says, pushing his chair back from the computer. “Or a Dacia Badea. Anywhere. The name itself appears to be Romanian. If she’s employed by Senator Cregg, she doesn’t show up on the official payroll. So, we’re at a dead end for now without Molly’s information . . .”
Everyone stares at me. Obviously, since I’m the one who has to make the decision, and since I’m where the show is about to happen, but I want them to look away. To give me some space. It feels weird to let control slip to Molly with all of them watching.
“It’s okay,” Deo says softly. “You really don’t look as spaced as you think.”
He’s trying to be helpful. I know that. And in one sense, he is helpful. His comment makes it sound like I’m super vain however, and it’s really not about how I look. It’s more . . .
Okay, it’s partly how I look. But it’s also an issue of privacy. I hate being the center of attention even when I’m in full control of my brain.
My vanity and desire for privacy are trumped by the fact that we clearly don’t have much choice, so I lean back and close my eyes. Then I visualize pulling a single brick from the top of the wall. It’s not even all the way out before I hear Molly.
That’s not Pa’s number. Someone else placed that bulletin board notice.
She pushes a brief image of hands—her hands, I guess, back when all of her fingers were in place—dialing a number on an iPhone with a skin that looks like a colorful explosion of musical notes. I can’t see all the digits, but the last four are 9949.
Maybe . . . he changed it? It’s been nearly three years, Molly.
It’s not even his area code! Aaron and Sam have his number. Get them to check.
Okay.
I wait, expecting her to keep talking.
Now! Get them to check NOW.
I’m tempted to press the point, since I think her info about Badea is more crucial, but Molly seems really frazzled. I don’t think it’s simply from being shut out. I’ve done that to her before, when I needed to focus and she was making me crazy. It’s more like she’s building up the courage to tell me the rest.
When I pull my eyes into focus, I’m not surprised to see that they’re all still looking at me.
“She says the number on the post isn’t Porter’s. His ends in . . . 9949. Wrong area code, too.”
Aaron digs both the printout and his phone out of his pocket, and after a moment, he nods. “She’s right. Not his number. Might be his office number, though . . . or more likely a burner phone. That way he doesn’t end up with a bunch of crank calls six months from now.”
“I’ll ask Jerome tomorrow,” Sam says. “What did she say about the Badea woman?”
“Hold on.”
Molly doesn’t exactly rush to the front this time.
Come on, Molly. You were banging on the inside of my skull a few minutes ago, and now you go quiet?
There’s a pause before she answers.
Daciana was one of the two girls at the house where Cregg was holding me. One of the Eastern European girls Lucas handed over to him. I thought everyone was saying Tasha, not Dacia. Otherwise, I might have pieced it together earlier. Her face looked familiar, but I assumed Cregg killed her after he killed me. She and I talked a bit when we were there . . . her English was really broken back then, but she said she was from this little place in Romania. Can’t remember the name, but it was a port town on the Danube. I remember that because when she told me, I hummed the waltz—you know, “The Blue Danube”?
She pushes me a few seconds of piano music from her memory. Ba bada bum bum, bum bum, bum bum.
When I hummed the song, she smiled and nodded. And said that was home.
Something about this conversation with Molly feels wrong. I’m not sure what it is at first, and then it hits me. Usually, when Molly is talking, I get visuals and audio. Not like a video feed. More like flashes, like when she was telling me about calling Porter’s number on her phone just now. Or I’ll see a face. A room. Some little snippet from her memory.
But aside from that one bar of “The Blue Danube,” there’s no memory of sounds or smells. No visuals. All I’m seeing is the back of my eyelids. It’s like Molly can’t bring herself to remember the details. And that frightens the hell out of me, because these things that Molly can’t bring herself to face right now, can’t bring herself to tell me in words? I’m going to get every bit of it in vivid color when I start unpacking her memories in my dreams.
I’m pretty sure Molly knows exactly what I’m thinking, but she ignores me and keeps talking about the girl.
She said she left Romania looking for work. A company came around and posted flyers announcing jobs in the US. Go
od jobs. She took all of their tests and did well. They even showed her pictures of the children she’d be taking care of. But then there was some other sort of test. She just kept repeating the word “test,” and saying, “no pass.” I thought she meant like language tests, that her English wasn’t good enough for the job. But she rolled up her sleeves and showed me bruises, needle marks. They injected her with something. And no, it wasn’t tracks, it wasn’t like she was shooting up. I’ve seen plenty of that.
I do get a brief visual then . . . of a pale, thin girl who looks to be in her late teens. She’s beautiful, with wide blue eyes and long dark hair, but I’m not sure I’d have recognized her as the woman I met earlier tonight if Molly hadn’t made the connection. The girl is holding up the sleeve of her blouse to reveal an upper arm with the mottled greenish-gold signs of fading bruises. There’s a faint pink spot near the middle of the largest one.
And then as quickly as the image came, it’s back to black again.
You said there was another girl, too. Was it the same with her? The tests, I mean.
I don’t know. We didn’t talk. She was the first one Cregg . . . finished. The same night Lucas killed my mom. The same night he handed me over.
Molly goes silent. I don’t want to push, so I wait. When I hear her again, her words tumble out quickly.
Just let me tell them, okay? Give me ten more minutes and let me get it over with. If I tell you everything, and then you have to relay it to them, that means I have to say it and then I have to hear it. I don’t think I can do this twice. I know Kelsey isn’t here. But Deo is. And Daniel’s practically a cop. There has to be some sort of law against me stealing your body, right? I promise I won’t fight you, and I won’t ask to see Pa again. Please, Anna. Just let me get it over with.
And even though she doesn’t mention it, I get a quick visual of Taylor’s face from earlier tonight. When she was angry. Molly also wants to say good-bye. I don’t entirely understand why, but she needs Taylor’s forgiveness.
Fine.
Even as the word forms in my mind, I feel my muscles tightening. It’s partly because giving her control makes me nervous, and partly because Deo’s not going to like this. I hate to worry him. The icing on the crapcake, however, is that I know beyond doubt that Molly’s story isn’t one I want to hear. I’ll have to relive all the details at some point, but there’s a really big part of me that’s perfectly okay with pushing that point as far into the future as I can.
“Deo,” I say as I open my eyes. “I’m letting Molly move to the front for a bit.”
I guess he can tell from my expression that my mind is made up, because he doesn’t try to talk me out of it. He just gives me a worried shake of the head and says, “Bad. Idea.”
“Maybe. You’ve got Kelsey on speed dial in case I get lost?”
It’s intended as a joke, but he pulls out his phone.
All four members of the family Quinn are staring at me now.
“What do you mean . . . move to the front?” Taylor asks.
“It’s Molly’s story and she needs to tell it. Her words without me in the middle. I’m giving her ten minutes, and I’d appreciate it if you’d help Deo . . . enforce that?” It comes out as a question, because I don’t really know whether I can count on any of them in that regard.
They exchange a look, and Aaron asks, “How? What should I do?”
“Just remind her we had an agreement. Molly’s a good person, but she’s scared, and . . .” I shrug, wondering now if Deo isn’t right about this being a bad idea.
“You have my word,” Sam says. The rest of them don’t say anything, but they all nod, even Taylor.
I squeeze Deo’s hand. “Back in ten.”
“You’d better be.”
Thanks, Anna.
Molly doesn’t sound as eager about taking over as she did in Kelsey’s office, but she slides forward and I feel the chicken and the biscuit I ate churn.
The room fades slightly around me. Molly glances at all four of the Quinns, saving Taylor for last.
“You been sayin’ you were gonna cut your hair for what . . . five years? Can’t believe your mama finally let you do it. It looks cute, Tay.”
Taylor’s lip quivers and her eyes become shiny, but she doesn’t say anything.
Molly looks around at the others and shifts to a more formal tone. “First, thank you for everything you’ve been doing. Helping Pa try to find Lucas, I mean. And like I told Pa today, you do need to find him. While he’s not the man who killed me, I’m pretty sure he killed Mama. I don’t think he really wanted to. I think maybe he really did love her in his way. But I overheard him talking about the girls they were bringing in. And . . . Mama may have had her issues with drugs and God knows she’d managed to ignore all the bad things about Lucas for years. But she was a good person. She just made the mistake of thinking Lucas was too, and when I explained what he was into, she confronted him. I told her not to. I told her we should leave, find Pa, let the police handle it . . . but she wanted to give Lucas a chance to do the right thing. Instead, I’m pretty sure he shot her. And then he handed me over to . . .”
Her voice shakes as she continues, “I heard his name as Craig, although Aaron seems to think it’s really Graham Cregg.”
Sam leans forward in his chair and reaches across to squeeze my hand. “Do you think you could identify him if Aaron finds a photograph, sweetie?”
Aaron slides his chair back to the computer and begins typing before Sam is even done with the question.
Molly nods. “Absolutely.”
She pushes up from the couch and walks us over to the desk. Before she looks at the computer screen, she squeezes Aaron’s shoulder. “I meant what I told Anna earlier. There’s nothin’ you could’ve done, Aaron.”
His mouth tightens and he stares into my eyes. I don’t know if he’s trying to find Molly or trying to find absolution. Maybe both.
“Sure,” he says, focusing back on the computer and not sounding sure at all.
Molly keeps her focus on Aaron, instead of the screen. I already suspected she had a crush on him, and maybe vice versa, but the wave of emotion that surges through me surprises me with its intensity.
“I mean it. And if you’re thinking this really isn’t me, Airhead . . . think again.”
Molly smiles, because Aaron jumps slightly at the word.
“Mullet, Tater, and Airhead,” Daniel says. “I’d almost forgotten about those nicknames. Glad I was old enough that I didn’t get stuck with one.”
Molly exchanges a look with Aaron, and I can feel my lips twitching like she’s holding in a laugh.
But it’s Taylor who speaks. “No, you had one. What was his name, Molly? You got that in your little file?” There’s a definite challenge in Taylor’s question, and the smile fades from my face.
Sam says, “Come on, Taylor. No need to be like that.”
“It’s okay, Sam.” Molly jerks my chin up and holds Taylor’s stare as she answers. “It was Damn-iel. And I picked it ’cause he was always yelling at us to keep out of his damn room. We just had to whisper it to keep from getting our butts kicked by the grown-ups. You satisfied now? I don’t think anybody knew that aside from you, me, and Aaron. I could start listing the boys you used to crush on, or tell everyone about the spot where you stash stuff you don’t want found, but Anna has me on a timer and I’d really like to use the next few minutes constructively.”
She doesn’t wait for Taylor’s answer, just gives her a defiant look and turns back to Aaron’s monitor, where a picture of a man in business attire is now center screen. His slight paunch and receding hairline suggest that he’s in his midforties, as does the touch of gray near the sideburns of his closely cropped dark hair. Several other men are in the picture with him, but it’s clear that he’s the photographer’s focal point. The caption reads R. Graham Cregg Named to DSG Board.
“Is this him, Molly?”
As Molly steps back away from the desk, it’s like a
massive weight has landed on my chest. The man’s face flashes through my memory along with a strange buzzing noise in my ears.
No. It’s not actually in my head. Molly’s just remembering it, and the memory is so vivid that I can almost hear it. It’s similar to what I detected at the police station and earlier at the townhouse, but not quite identical. Less of a tactile sensation and more audible.
For several seconds my eyes are glued to the computer, but gradually she pulls my gaze away. “Yeah. He’s gained a little weight since I saw him, but that’s definitely him.”
My pulse is pounding so loudly as she walks us back over to the couch that I don’t catch what Sam asks her. Molly does, however.
“I’m okay. But yeah, that would be nice.”
Aaron gets up and heads to the kitchen.
“Eight minutes,” Deo says, and Molly shoots him an annoyed look.
A few seconds later, Aaron presses a bottle of water into my hand. Molly tips it up, and despite the low-level panic I can still feel surging through my body after seeing the picture of Graham Cregg, I also detect a contradictory wave of pleasure. She drains the bottle without pausing, and breathes deeply.
Molly savors the faint spicy aroma that remains in the air.
Chicken smells good too. Wish you’d saved me some.
You can’t be hungry.
No, but I haven’t eaten in nearly three years. It’s not the same when you’re riding in the backseat, is it?