Mollie
As she sat shivering in the front passenger seat of her grandfather’s Cadillac, Mollie held her hands in front of the vents to warm them. She was still trying to process everything that had happened. It played in her mind like scenes from an old-fashioned slide show. The door to The Vault opening and moonlight spilling in. Feet clamoring down the steps. The tip of the knife digging into her throat. The loud bang that percussed throughout the dungeon.
It had all happened so fast, Mollie could hardly believe she was actually free. Pops had saved her, just like she knew he would. She was still upset about everything she’d learned over the past day or so, but none of that mattered right now. What mattered was that she was safe in this car, and the man was now dead.
She couldn’t believe she was still alive, and she couldn’t understand why the man had barely touched her since grabbing her from the parking lot. Mollie had heard about the other missing girls, and the man had told her everything he had done to them before killing them and disposing of their bodies. So why not her? He could have done anything he wanted during her captivity, but he’d spent most of his time reading, sleeping, pacing, and rambling. She considered herself extremely lucky compared to those poor girls. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t have emotional scars for the rest of her life.
“Here comes the boss now,” Bruno said, breaking her train of thought. Bruno had carried her to the car and placed her gently in the passenger seat while her pops had remained down in The Vault, finishing the man off.
But when Mollie looked through the windshield, she saw the man stumbling in front of Pops, who had a gun pointed at the back of his head. His hands were bound together with zip ties, and his face and right arm were entirely covered in blood. Mollie couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She’d thought for sure the man was dead. Her pulse quickened, and she held her breath. Seeing him again was terrifying, but when she looked more closely at him, he looked completely different than when he was in control. He now looked defeated. Maybe even a little scared.
Bruno got out and walked up to Pops. Mollie strained to hear what he way saying.
“I thought you killed him, boss.”
“I probably should have,” she heard her grandfather say. “But I realized that would have been too quick and easy for him. I had a better idea.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ll see soon enough. I want you to take him back to Trifecta. Use Mollie’s car. It’s parked right over there.” Pops tossed him a set of keys he must have found down in the bunker.
“Okay, boss. But what about you?”
“Just keep him on ice, but do not let him die. Call Dr. Werner and have him look at his wound. I’ll be there shortly. I’m taking Mollie home to her mother.”
“Yes, boss.” Bruno nodded. He pulled out his gun, shoved it into the man’s ribcage, and guided him away from the Cadillac.
Her grandfather tucked his gun behind him and climbed into the driver’s seat. He turned and placed his hand on Mollie’s shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m fine, I guess.”
She didn’t look right at her grandfather. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t have been kidnapped in the first place if it weren’t for him.
“Everything is going to be okay.” He squeezed her shoulder gently. “Pops is here. Are you ready to go home? Your mother will be so happy to see you.”
“Yes, please.” That was all she could manage. She was afraid if she said much more, her anger toward Pops would show, and she was too exhausted, physically and emotionally, to deal with her complicated feelings toward him right now. She just wanted to get away from the bunker and home to her mother, climb into her own bed, pull the sheets over her head, and sleep for a week.
“Then let’s get you home.” Pops put the car in gear and backed it away from where he’d parked by that damned deformed tree. He did a turnabout and slowly drove through the woods, occasionally swerving to avoid large fallen limbs or holes in the ground. The car jostled and bounced as they drove over rocks and branches, but Mollie’s muscles slowly begin to relax the further they drove.
She couldn’t believe this was really happening, that she was really in her Pops’s car, driving away from that hell hole and the madman who’d held her hostage for hours and hours. She let out a deep sigh of relief and blinked back tears of happiness. It was real. She was going home.
Mollie looked over at her grandfather, who appeared satisfied and maybe even a little smug. A tiny smile played across his lips as he kept his eyes on the bumpy road ahead. She should have felt gratitude and fondness toward him. Instead, the more she stared at him, the more she realized she didn’t know him at all. Not really. Sure, she’d known he was a famous “businessman” who probably bent the rules from time to time to get what he wanted. But Mollie had always assumed that meant he paid off politicians and greased the palms of government officials. She had never had any clue what he was really capable of. He had lied to her for years. Not to mention the fact that she would never have been kidnapped had it not been for his actions all those years ago. Her resentment toward her pops grew exponentially, the more she thought about what the man had told her.
When they finally made it out of the woods and onto a paved road, Mollie caught a glimpse of an old white farmhouse up on the top of the hill to her right. Was that where the man lived? She’d figured he had a house nearby, especially when he’d left her there for a while then returned with a television. Besides being old and maybe a little disheveled, the house seemed normal. Mollie tried to reconcile the idea that this man lived in a normal house with the fact that he was a cold-blooded killer who had kidnapped and murdered at least six other girls just so he could get to her. Though part of her felt guilty, mostly she was angry. And her anger was directed at the man who had caused it all—the man who was now driving her to safety.
He tried to talk to her once they pulled out onto the city road, but Mollie only answered with a shake of her head, a nod, or a shrug. Eventually picking up on the fact that she wasn’t ready for chit-chat, Pops gave up and turned on the radio. Jazz music. The last thing Mollie wanted to hear.
The black Cadillac pulled into the driveway of her home at the end of the cul de sac, and her mother flung herself out the front door and ran barefooted toward the car. Her white terrycloth robe trailed behind her as she came to Mollie’s side with arms wide open.
Mollie’s heart leapt in her chest at the sight of her mother, her best friend. She gulped back a lump that formed in her throat and opened the passenger side door before the car had even come to a complete stop. Within seconds, Mollie was in her mother’s arms, crying into her chest, and falling to the ground in a mixture of happiness and relief.
“Oh, Mollie,” her mother said as she stroked her freshly shorn blonde hair. “You’re home. You’re safe. Oh, my God.”
Kitty gently held her daughter at arms’ length and inspected her daughter, head to toe. Seemingly satisfied with what she saw, she pulled Mollie back into a tight embrace and rocked her side to side, just like she had when she was little. Mollie could smell the subtle fragrance of her Chanel No. 5, mixed with her fruity shampoo, and it smelled like home. She gave in to her feelings and let it all out.
Her pops leaned against the hood of his car with his arms crossed over his chest and a proud smile on his face. Mollie could see him over her mother’s heaving shoulders. She wanted to shout at him. Ask him why he looked so smug. Remind him she wouldn’t have needed saving if it weren’t for what he’d done to the man’s father. There would be a time and a place for that conversation, but it wasn’t here, and it wasn’t now. If she could keep her mother from knowing it was her own father’s fault her daughter had nearly been killed, it would save her further grief.
Once they’d managed to pick themselves up and walk into the house, Mollie’s mother poured them all some fresh chamomile tea. As Mollie sat at the kitchen table, slowly stirring honey into the steaming hot amber liquid, she tried to push away all the unpleasant images of the man that kept popping up in her mind. She’d never learned his name, but it didn’t matter. She was sure she’d hear it soon enough. Eventually, there would be reporters parked on their front lawn and detectives trying to drag information out of her.
Her mom had begged Pops to hold off on calling the police, just for a little longer, to give Mollie some peace and quiet and time to adjust to being home before the maelstrom began. Pops had easily agreed and even made a comment about giving it time first. Time for what, exactly, Mollie was unsure, but she could guess. She knew her pops wasn’t going to hand the man over to the police, because he’d already instructed Bruno to take him to the lounge. Mollie wasn’t sure how she felt about this. She wanted to see the man pay for what he’d done to her. But she also wasn’t sure how she felt about Pops putting their whole family at risk by hiding a known killer from the police. And now that she knew exactly what her grandfather was capable of doing, she also had to decide how she felt about the man’s fate. Would it be better for him to rot away in a prison cell? Or would it be better to let Pops do what he wanted?
“Well,” Pops said, breaking her train of thought. He stood from the table and hiked his pants up by his belt. “I’d better get going. I’ve got a lot to take care of, and it’s getting late.”
Mollie’s mother gave Pops a knowing look. “Please be careful, Daddy.”
Pops nodded once. “Always. Now, wait another hour, then call Detective Jamison. Do you have his number?”
“I still have his card from when he stopped by,” she answered.
“Good.” Pops turned his focus to Mollie, who was picking at a scone and forcing herself to take tiny bites. “Mollie, my dear. I’m so glad you’re home, with your mother, where you belong. Call me if you need me.”
Mollie didn’t respond. She didn’t even meet his gaze. She just placed a piece of scone into her mouth and forced herself to chew. Though her stomach was growling from lack of food, her nerves made eating difficult.
“Give her some time,” her mother said. “She’ll come around.”
“All right.” Pops kissed Kitty on top of the head, turned, and walked out the back door.
“I’m going to my room,” Mollie said a few minutes after Pops had left. She pushed her chair back and slowly stood. Her knees still felt like soggy noodles, but she managed to stay upright.
“Holler if you need me,” her mother said as Mollie brushed past her and walked toward the stairs. “And, Mollie?”
Mollie stopped right at the base of the stairs with her hand on the knob and looked at her mother. Kitty’s eyes were swollen, red, and full of fresh tears.
“Please, if you need anything…anything at all, do not hesitate to ask. I’m here if you need me.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Mollie said. “I love you.” And with that, she turned the knob and headed up the steep steps toward her converted attic space.
She sat on the edge of her bed and looked around. Her room was pretty much as she’d left it, except her mother had apparently made her bed at some point. As she scanned the room, she tried to accept the reality that she was actually home. That she had survived. She never thought she’d see these things again. The pictures of her and her friends, her vanity where she sat and got ready every morning, her favorite stuffed teddy bear. It was strange to see all these things looking exactly like they had the last time. Nothing had changed at all—on the outside, at least.
On the inside, everything had changed. She would never be the same again, and she knew it. Being kidnapped, chained to a wall, and mentally tortured for nearly two days would do that to a person. She wondered when and if she’d ever be able to enjoy her possessions again. Once, they had meant the world to her. She’d have died if she’d lost even one picture. But now, everything seemed so trivial and inconsequential.
Again, images of The Vault flashed before her eyes, and she tried to push them away with every ounce of strength she had left. Would she ever stop seeing him? Would she ever stop feeling those chains around her ankles? She didn’t think so. The images, the smells, the sounds, were all permanently etched in her brain, the way a farmer branded a cow. Was that what she was now? Just an animal with a scar that would never be human again? Would she ever laugh again? She couldn’t even imagine enjoying the things she once had. They all seemed so petty and pathetic. As if she’d aged ten years in two days. She could barely even remember what her life had been like before.
Then she remembered. Her journal. She had written it all down. Her most memorable life experiences, the good and the bad. All her secrets. She started a new journal at the beginning of every year and had recorded every single memory she never wanted to forget. She could read it now and hopefully recall the good times. Remember what it was like to be Mollie Cartwright again. Maybe if she could remember, she could slowly find her way back.
She leaned over and felt around underneath the bed. Her fingers felt a blanket, a paper plate, and a pen, but no journal. Not yet worried, she scooted off the bed onto the floor, got on her hands and knees, and flipped up the dust ruffle. But there was nothing there. Her journal was gone.