Molly

I’ve lost track of time in a room with no windows and no phone. It could be day or night, and I wouldn’t know.

All I do is sleep. Whether it’s the knot on my head or the pregnancy or the stress, I sit on the floor in the corner curled in a ball, doing my best to stay warm.

Last night I dreamed I was back in the theater again. I was very little, and I was cold and afraid. Lara was speaking to me. Her voice was soft in my ear and her arms were tight around me. She was giving me comfort, but I understand now I was giving her comfort as well.

She told me that old story about my mother being a beautiful dancer who fell in love with my father. He would sing to her, and she would go to him.

The story changed each time she told it, but the basics were the same. My father was poor and my mother was promised to another man. My mother left me with Lara until she could come back and get me…

I remember the night I shouted at her it was all a lie. I was hurt, and I’d stopped believing. Now I see how much she tried. I’m so ashamed. I was so ungrateful.

I don’t believe in praying. Killers like me don’t get to pray, but I close my eyes and speak the words very softly anyway. “Please let me tell her I’m sorry. Somehow…”

The loud metal clatch causes me to push into a sitting position. I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve had a visitor. I’m so hungry, my stomach is a hollow ache. I’ve been rationing the gallon of water in the corner by the toilet. I have no idea how long I’ll be here.

The door opens, and I’m shocked when Renee walks in. I pull the long sleeves of my shirt over my hands and wipe my eyes with them. At least I washed my face before they took me, otherwise, I’d have mascara smeared all over my cheeks.

She walks to the center of the room and turns as if inspecting the place. She looks at the walls, at the tiny toilet area in the corner, then she looks at me.

“Houses in New Orleans don’t have basements.” Her chin lifts, and her dark hair is tied in a small knot at the nape of her neck. It enhances the severity of her features. “We’re below sea level. It’s impossible to keep the water out. This is my father’s secret room. It was a temporary holding cell, a place no one would look. Because no one looks for a basement in New Orleans.”

I’m wiping the crust out of my eyes, trying to process her words. How do I respond to this?

“I know you’re planning to kill me…”

“I won’t have to kill you. No one will look for you here. You’re already buried alive.”

My head drops, and sickness fills my stomach. If her goal is to demoralize me, to steal my last bit of hope, she almost succeeds.

I inhale a shaky breath and do my best to keep my defiance alive. “Can I get a book?”

The woman actually laughs. “Of course. I’ll send something down.”

“Thank you.” I’m so fucking hungry, I decide to test my luck. “And a sandwich would be nice. Or just some crackers.”

She sniffs and goes to the door. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The door closes and that metal latch slides in place. I turn to my side and fall against the wall. If I’m to be punished for what I’ve done, I guess I’m getting it now.

I don’t know how much time has passed when the door opens again. I slept, and I don’t care. She intends to leave me here to die. I guess I have to deal with it.

Pressing my back against the wall, I brace for the reappearance of Renee.

I’m disappointed.

A petite young woman with straight black hair enters the room carrying a tray with what looks like a club sandwich and a large book. She places it in front of me, and I hesitate, watching her.

“What’s the catch?” My eyes flicker to her dark ones.

“No catch. Renee said to bring you a sandwich and a book.”

My foot moves, and I scoot forward, scooping up the food. It’s too thick for me to bite, and I drop the top bun to the side. I’ll eat it next. I peel off the bacon and wolf it down. Salty, tangy, fatty goodness coats my tongue, and I let out a loud groan. “It’s so good.”

The woman stands back watching me. “You hadn’t eaten when I picked you up.” Her voice is small, quiet.

I realize it’s Shooter, and I scoot back again, on my guard. Our eyes lock, but she’s unarmed. She’s not here to hurt me. Still, I watch her. My hunger is momentarily abated, and I’m ready if she tries anything.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

She shrugs, stepping to the side and looking around my small prison. “We’re the same. We’re killers, hackers… I’ve watched you for years, tracked you. You’re one of the best.”

“Thank you.” It’s a tight reply. All my muscles are tense, ready to react.

“I consider myself one of the best.”

I nod, taking another bite of food. “Noted.”

She’s more relaxed. Turning on her heels, she crosses her arms and faces me, frowning as if she’s trying to figure out a complex problem. “Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Why did you kill those men? They were lowlifes, criminals with no connections, no payoff.” She takes another step, studying me. “You’re clearly smart. Why take a chance like that? Why gamble your freedom for no reward? Are you an adrenaline junkie?”

“You want to know why I didn’t just hack into a bank and steal a bunch of money. Move to Indonesia and live like a queen on an island in the south Pacific?”

“Basically, yes. You could do that.”

My eyes move from my hands clasped in my lap up my arms where tiny silver scars stripe my skin. “Being a hacker didn’t come first for me. I became a hacker so I could find the men who raped me when I was thirteen.”

Shooter’s arms move. She tightens them higher over her chest, but she doesn’t interrupt me. She wants me to keep going, so I do.

“We ran away from New Orleans to escape our abusers. We ran all the way to France… but I couldn’t escape what happened to me. I couldn’t remember the details, but the feelings would bubble up. They would rise to the surface of my skin and burn until I let them out.” Shooter is the first person I’ve spoken to so plainly about why I cut my skin. I never told Joshua. I never even told Stas…

“Killing helped you to stop?”

“Stas… the old man helped me stop. He taught me to meditate. He taught me to confront the feelings and name them, give them a place, and let them go. He taught me self-defense, so I would never be a victim again.”

She’s thinking about what I’m saying. Her heels make sharp clicking sounds as she paces the concrete floor. “But it wasn’t enough. Meditation, self-defense, they weren’t enough.”

“I guess I’m not as enlightened as I ought to be. The only way I could stop feeling their hands on my skin, their breath on my neck, was to make them stop breathing altogether.”

You could hear a pin drop it’s so quiet in the room. It’s not an uncomfortable silence. It’s more a respectful silence. The silence of two people who kill for a living acknowledging their truths.

“My little sister was shot in the head at a bus stop. She was on her way to school, second grade, and some drug dealer wanted to send a message. Annie just happened to be in the way of his gun.”

I bend my legs, placing my hands on top of my knees. Not everyone has a reason to carry a gun, to hunt down the people who wield ultimate power over the lives of the helpless.

We do.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It was a long time ago.”

She goes to the door, and I wait as she slides the latch. “I didn’t tell you congratulations on being a mom. I guess that adds a new layer of difficulty to your chosen profession. Or maybe it changes things.”

My voice is quiet. “It changes everything. My quest for revenge doesn’t matter anymore. The only thing that matters is my baby, my family.”

“So you’ll walk away?”

“If I get that chance.”

She nods, and I think she’s about to leave. Instead, she hesitates. “Is there anything you’d like? Anything you want to know?”

I didn’t expect her to say this, and a thousand questions flood my mind at once. “Is anyone looking for me?”

“Not yet.”

The door opens with a jerk, and she steps out.

“Wait,” I call. “One more thing.”

She puts a foot inside my room again. “What?”

My brow furrows, and I look down. “This might not be something you can tell me. If it’s not, I understand. Renee said something… about my mother. She said she knows who she was.” Swallowing the pain in my throat I continue. “If you could tell me who I really am… It’s something I’ve always wanted to know. I’d like to know before…” I don’t know how I want to finish that sentence.

Shooter thinks about my request. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re good, Hit Girl. Your story deserves a better ending than dying alone in an underground cell.”

“Maybe I’ll get one.”