I howl with pain and anticipate the blade sliding between my ribs. But when I straighten, I see Holt straining to hear something.
An engine.
A car.
Molly’s in the van.
Molly’s going to run!
I want to roar with triumph, but my brother starts running toward the van, yelling her name.
I race after him, clutching my hand, calling him a coward. Trying to goad him into fighting me instead of chasing after Molly.
We reach the clearing, and I see the van.
It’s facing Holt, and Molly is behind the steering wheel with a smile that looks more than a little deranged.
She points at Holt and then slams on the accelerator.
The van bolts forward, and though at first it seems Holt will run, in the end, he opens his arms wide.
“Do it,” I shout. “Don’t stop!”
Molly barrels closer to him, and I wonder what it will do to me to see my girlfriend kill my brother.
Holt keeps his eyes glued to Molly’s face and steps toward the vehicle. He’s actually walking into his own death.
Molly’s scream erupts from the open window as she jerks the wheel at the last moment and sends the van crashing into a tree instead of Holt. Steam rises from the engine, and Holt races toward the driver’s seat.
What the hell is happening here?
I cut off his path and barrel into him. He drops the knife, but instead of diving for it, he turns and races toward the water.
“Stay there,” I yell to Molly before running after Holt, leaving the knife behind.
“Holt!” I plunge into the woods, the moonlight cutting a path between the trees. As I grow closer to the lake, my footsteps slow. I realize I’m enjoying this. It’s therapeutic in a way that ten months of therapy never was. I didn’t need talk therapy. I didn’t need white pills in white cups. I needed this. The chase. The conquest.
The finality that would come when two brothers who’ve always hated each other collided at last.
NOW
I spot him hiding behind a boulder on the beach and stalk toward him.
“What are you doing back there, brother?” I ask. “Trying to skip rocks? I can show you how, but you’ll have to come closer.”
Holt stands up, facing me head on.
He smiles.
“Dad’s not here to save you now, Cobain,” he says, stepping out from behind the rock. There’s blood on his shoulders. There’s blood on my hands. There’s no telling how much more blood will spill tonight.
I raise a finger and curl it toward myself.
Holt strides toward me.
When he gets close enough, Holt gives one arrogant cock of his chin as if saying, Let’s go. He’s ready for this.
I am, too.
I lunge at him.
Together, we go to the ground. He attempts to crawl on top of me, but I bring my leg up and knee him in the face. He groans as his shattered nose takes another direct hit.
Blood sprays across my face. I wipe it with the back of my hand and stand over him, ready to end this. He groans, and then swings his own leg around, knocking me behind the knees.
I crumble, and this time he is able to clamber on top of me.
He delivers two punches to the side of my head, and my ear rings from the impact.
“She…isn’t…yours…anymore,” he grunts as he hits me.
His words send a tidal wave of fury coursing through me. I grab for his throat, and his eyes flash with surprise. The reaction scratches some desperate, childlike itch inside me, and I find myself taking hold with my other hand.
He claws at my hands, throws his fist out to try and hit me again. But I lean just far enough away to avoid the blows and maintain my grasp on his neck.
He starts to sink to the side, and I follow him there. Soon, it’s me on top. Me with the advantage. I press my hands down harder, my fingertips touching on either side of his neck.
He flops like a beached fish, his eyes bulging. I imagine if I swam my finger inside his mouth, I’d find a hook and lure.
Holt grabs on to my wrists and squeezes. His mouth opens and closes in desperation, as if in a silent attempt to reason with me.
I tighten my hold in response.
I push down with every ounce of weight I carry and imagine the things he might have done to Molly. I imagine his mouth on her skin. Her breasts in his hands. His hand fumbling for his zipper. The grunts he made as he rocked inside of her.
An animalistic sound escapes my lips, and I shake his neck.
Nine years ago, it was him on top.
But now it’s me who is in control.
“You tried to kill me,” I say, and I push down, down. “You took away my parents. You took away my girlfriend.”
Holt opens his mouth to the sky and makes silent gasping motions. Then he reaches back and clocks me against the face. I wasn’t ready for the hit, and so I lose my hold. Just a bit. But he’s weak from lack of oxygen, and I reclaim my grip in a matter of seconds.
This time, I will not let up.
No matter how hard he hits me.
No matter how strongly he fights back.
Even if I remember my mother and father saying, quietly, when he wasn’t around, “He’s sick, Cobain. We take care of each other when we’re sick, right? We have to be patient with him, even when it’s hard.”
Holt seems to make a decision beneath me. He releases my wrists and reaches up, and for a moment I’m certain he’s going to attempt hitting me again.
Let him try.
Instead, his hands grab my cheeks, and his eyes meet mine. Eyes that are starting to roll inside his skull. He opens his mouth to say something, but of course, there is no air. I’m holding it in the palms of my hands and refuse to return it.
He grips my face tighter.
And then closes his eyes.
His head falls to his side.
His body collapses.
And I cry out and leap off of him while there’s still time and throw my face into my hands because he is my brother. He is my brother, goddammit.
And sometimes he was Holt, happy.
“Cobain,” Molly says, and my head snaps up.
I spin around to see her, and I imagine what I must look like in her eyes. Crazy, unmanageable, not at all like the boy she imagined me to be.
Those green eyes stay locked on mine, and I find myself entranced.
“It’s okay,” she says. “Everything is going to be okay now.” I watch the way her lips move as she speaks—a tiny heart-shaped weapon that could kill me with only a few words. I search her eyes, and they tell me everything I suspected. That she loves me. That she was only scared. I hate her for turning her manipulation on me, but what happened to her here was because she knew me.
Molly lays a hand on my chest and nudges me farther away from my brother. “Do you have your phone?”
I nod. “In the truck. I don’t know if it will—”
“Go get it,” she interrupts. “Call the police, and let’s get out of here.”
I grab her elbow. “Come with me. I’m not leaving you alone.”
She nudges me a second time. Her eyes have hardened like two marbles tucked inside her skull. The sight of them sends a chill over my body. “Go,” she insists. “I need to do something first.”
I glance down at Holt. He lies unconscious on the ground, and I know he won’t be getting up anytime soon.
I nod once at Molly and then run toward my truck.
I’m not sure what makes me turn back—the fear of her vanishing before my eyes, most likely. Regardless, I glance over my shoulder and stop cold.
Holt is waking up.
Molly is standing over him.
Molly has the knife in her hand.
I step towa
rd her as my pulse kicks along my neck.
She points the knife toward him and says something. Then she gets down on her knees and lays the blade against his neck.
“Molly,” I say, but I’m not sure why I say it. My brother hates me. And I love her. This could be the perfect end to this nightmare.
But even as I think this, something unnamable rolls in my stomach. I don’t want this blood on her hands. And I don’t want to watch my brother die, either, even if I thought I did.
A sound crashes over my shoulder, and I turn to find three police cruisers pulling in next to my truck. Doors fly open, and guns are drawn, and officers move in toward the scene.
“Molly,” I say again, louder, and watch as she gets to her feet.
She says one last thing as the officers yell for her to get back, drop the weapon, get on the ground!
Holt sees the police.
Holt sees Molly.
Resentment twists his face, and he dives toward Molly. He rips the knife from her unsuspecting grasp and lifts it into the air as the police yell and I yell, too, and the entire world pivots one-quarter inch to the right.
A shot is fired.
NOW
Blood bursts from Holt’s shoulder.
The police are there in an instant. They are hauling him up, calling for an ambulance, grabbing Molly and me and pulling us away from the scene. Detectives Hernandez and Tehrani are there. They are asking, Are you two okay? Are you okay? And to me they say, Your mother told us everything, and to Molly, they add, We’re calling your mom to let her know we’ve got you.
At this, Molly clenches her eyes shut. When she reopens them, her gaze falls on me. She breaks away from Detective Hernandez and moves toward me like it’s the first time she’s seen me. She throws herself into my arms, and I wrap her up. I’m afraid I’ll never let her go. I’m afraid I’ll squeeze the life out of her right after I’ve found her alive.
“Cobain,” she says, and grabs my face to make me understand.
“I know.” I take the blanket Detective Tehrani hands me and wrap it around Molly’s shoulders. She lays her head against my chest, and I am whole again.
Detective Hernandez puts a comforting hand on Molly’s back and asks, “Molly, I know what you’ve been through has been very hard. But I need to ask if Holt Kelly is the person who brought you here, and if he did so against your will.”
Molly glances up, and she searches for Holt. When she finds him, their eyes meet. Holt looks at her with such anger and such longing that a chill rushes across my skin.
“Molly,” he roars. “Molly!”
There’s a strange look in her eyes as she watches the police dragging him away. There’s anger on her face to be sure, but there’s also something…softer. Understanding. She doesn’t look at him like a monster but as someone who needs help. It’s the same look I saw on my parents’ faces growing up. When I look at him now—when I really look at him—I don’t see Holt, happy and Holt, blue. I only see my brother. I am not afraid of him anymore. I am afraid of his illness.
It’s different.
As Holt calls Molly’s name over and over and reaches for her as the police struggle to get him into cuffs, her face twists with conflict.
“Molly?” I say.
“Yes, that’s him,” she answers the detective suddenly. “And yes, he took me against my will.” She glances at me and then at Detective Hernandez. “What will happen to him?”
“He’ll be in our custody until he goes to trial,” Detective Hernandez says. “Don’t worry. He won’t be getting near you again.”
Molly’s gaze flicks to Holt once again, and I pull her tighter as they put a hand on Holt’s head and push him into the car. He’s still calling her name. Saying he’s sorry. Saying he needs to tell her something. Saying, “That’s my brother. He’s my brother!”
His words drift down to the pond, lift that forgotten blade, and drive it into my chest.
“You got her?” Detective Hernandez asks me.
I pull myself together and nod. She jogs over to where Detective Tehrani is closing the car door on a man I’ll never think of as my brother.
Molly wraps her hand around the arch of my neck and brings me back to her. She looks…sad.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She gives me a weak smile and nods. “I am now.”
And then, she says something I don’t expect but always felt blazing across every inch of her. “Cobain, I love you. I’m so sorry I told you I didn’t. I’m so sorry for everything.”
I grasp her face in my hands and say the things I’ve imagined telling her since that night in the woods. “I know. And I’ll never let anything bad happen to you ever again. We’ll be happy. I promise.”
Tears prick her eyes, and I know, I know, words alone won’t be enough. She’s heard too many words, too many lies. So have I. Our lives are full of them.
How did we even get here? Would any of this have happened if we’d been honest with each other? Of all the lies, both big and small, which one hurt us the worst?
Was it when I lied to the police about how we met? They might not have doubted me if I’d told the truth.
Was it my dad lying about the dog I remembered? Or my mom playing along when Holt and I got into that fight? Would I have figured everything out sooner if they hadn’t let me believe my own lies?
Maybe it was that jerkoff, Duane, lying about who really took that money.
Then again, that lie saved me from a lot worse.
Was it your lie, Molly? The one where you told everyone you’d broken up with me? Would everyone have still thought I was crazy if you’d just admitted you loved me?
You lied to me about that, too.
Or maybe this was all my fault. Wasn’t the biggest lie mine?
I’m your brother. If you can’t trust me, who can you trust?
So many lies. More than any of us can count. And with every lie, we had a chance to make things right. How could we have been so stupid?
I’d like to say it’s all behind us.
But, of course, I’d be lying.
“We’ll be happy,” I repeat, “and I’ll love you back. Every part of you.”
Molly tugs my face toward hers, and our lips meet. There’s desperation in our kiss, and tenderness, and I feel all the things she’s never said aloud but offered to me anyway. I feel her considering this future I’ve painted, and I feel it when she pulls back and looks at me with eyes that have no hidden agenda.
In that moment, I forget about my brother. I forget about the police officers calling to one another, and the cold working its way into my bones. I forget about the messy lives that await us at home, and our imperfect families and imperfect pasts. I forget about all of it and stare down into this strange girl’s eyes, naked to me at last.
I kiss her lips, soft, quick, and lift my mouth to her ear and say, “There you are.”
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About the Author
Victoria Scott is the acclaimed author of nine novels including Fire & Flood, Violet Grenade, and The Collector. Victoria’s books have been YALSA-nominated, have appeared on the Spirit of Texas Reading Program, and have been included on Bank Street College of Education’s Best Books of the Year list. Her stories have been translated and sold in fourteen countries across the world. Victoria is also the owner and founder of Scribbler, the only subscription box for writers, which has been featured on BuzzFeed, Good Morning Texas, and Her Campus. Victoria loves hearing from her readers. You can find her on Instagram at @realvictoriascott.
Acknowledgments
We Told Six Lies is my ninth published book, and it sure gave me a run fo
r my money (edit for cliché). The characters, the points of view, the time jumps, the twist…it made for one hell of a project. A project I wouldn’t have conquered without my writing warrior and editor, Heather Howland. From initial idea to final draft, Heather was at my side, pushing me to tighten the story, to close loopholes, and to answer questions. And just when we thought we were done, one of us would find another inconsistency. Hey, Heather, we finally finished this wicked book! Kylo Ren would be proud.
Thank you to my family (special shout out to Mama), to my fans (V Mafia forever!), and to my friends, old and new. And of course to Lindsay Cummings, always, for being my writing BFF. Did we start a company together? Pretty sure we did. Bring on the Scribbler tattoos!
Thank you to my daughter, Luci—who this morning carried around an earthworm that I’m most certain is now postmortem—thank you for asking me to make up stories for you every night. “Not from a book, Mommy. You say one!” An enormous thank you to my husband, Ryan, for your continued support and faith in my writing. I didn’t think I’d make it through this book, but you did. You always do. I love you.
Love to my cousin Kristina who I am looking forward to seeing more often. What a beautiful family and life you have! Love to my aunts and uncles, who I think about often, even with many miles between us. Love to my cousin Reed who I’ve adored since I was a child. I love your art, your brain, and our two-hour phone calls. If I carve a class 5 river through Dallas, will you come live next door to me? And finally, love and a final farewell to my cousin Wayne who will always be with us in memory and spirit. To those who have felt your loss the deepest, I am so sorry. I wish there were more I could do than dedicate this book to you.
To my readers—those who know me intimately, those who follow me online, and those who are reading my work for the first time—life is short and beautiful and messy. Appreciate every moment. Mad love to every last one of you.
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