Page 9 of Repairing the Wreckage

“You should’ve told me that first.”

“Why? What the fuck can you do about it? I can’t even call you like a normal person. Thank fuck Jerry’s guys called the damn cops, or I’d still be trying to figure out a way to reach you.”

Cops. Molly’s car. “Remy, what else happened? Tell me the truth.”

“Well, Griff,” he says, dragging out my name like he’s talking to an annoying child, “it’s obvious where she went after she left the house.”

My throat tightens. If I had any tears, I’d probably let them loose right now. “She’s the one who destroyed the car,” I rasp.

“Took your trusty old bat to it,” he confirms.

“Fuck,” I breathe out. Unimaginable sadness hits, so heavy it pulls down on me until I fall into the chair behind the desk.

Molly loved the car.

Every moment—from the sweet look of surprise on her face when I gave it to her for her birthday to the night we finished bolting on the mirrors and made plans to take it to the drive-in flash in my mind.

The Molly I know has too much respect for things to destroy them. One time she traded paint with some guy at Zips when she was racing my car and was in tears when she showed me the simple scratches. No big deal. Happens all the time. Yet, she kept apologizing and trying to pay me for the damage for months after I fixed it.

Praying he’s wrong, I ask, “You’re sure it was her?”

“Who else would do it?” He sighs. “After she went Carrie Underwood on the car, I have no idea where she went.”

Molly is missing. But the girl I knew is also gone.

Being on this show has changed me in ways I don’t like.

And now it’s changed her too.

CHAPTER THREE

Molly

“Molly!”

I squeeze my eyes shut and curse under my breath. How’d he find me already?

Remy’s boots thud-squeak over the highly polished white tile floor as he hurries toward me. I set my coffee on the bench next to my leg. As I stand to greet him, Remy’s in my space, wrapping his arms around me.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he shouts, loud enough to draw the attention of several people nearby.

I struggle to breathe under his crushing hold. “How’d you find me?”

“Miss, is everything all right?” Nathan asks.

Remy turns and scowls at the security guard. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“I’m not asking you. I’m asking her,” Nathan says in a low, warning tone.

I wriggle out of Remy’s embrace and tug on his hand, hoping he’ll sit on the bench next to me instead of launching the punch he’s so clearly dying to land on Nathan’s face.

“I’m fine, Nathan. Thank you,” I say quickly. “This is my brother.”

Nathan’s gaze slides between Remy and me. Remy finally seems to chill, his posture relaxing. He squeezes my shoulder and drops down on the bench next to me, blowing out a relieved breath.

“Thanks for looking out for her,” Remy says to Nathan in a tone that actually resembles gratitude.

Nathan gives us one more assessing look then walks away, heading toward the escalator.

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