Page 102 of Deserter

“Be back in a few.” I pulled the door closed behind me and let the first few tears begin to fall as I climbed onto my bike.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried—it had to have been the night Ma died.

Incidentally, it was also the last time I prayed.

Tonight, my tears were prayers.

For forgiveness.

For family.

For strength to do the impossible.

* * *

The tiny duplex Molly called home was dark when I rode up. I let out a curse and was about to take off for the restaurant she worked at when I realized the garage was open.

I hopped off my bike and crept up the gravel driveway, feeling like the world’s biggest fool. She’d probably brought someone home and hadn’t bothered to shut the garage.

Fuck.

If I knew Molly, she was fucking the guy in the front seat.

I should’ve been at home, soaking up every minute with my children under the same roof. Instead, I was tracking down a woman who pulled disappearing acts all the time.

“Not sure why Celia thought you’d get your shit together for your goddaughter’s birthday,” I grumbled to myself as I walked up to the front door.

My repeated mashing on the doorbell went unanswered and the house remained dark. I had two choices—ride back and tell Celia I couldn’t find Molly or find a way inside, knowing I was going to see more than I wanted.

Neither was particularly appealing, but the second option left sex with my wife on the table. I cracked my knuckles and ventured around the side of the house, peering into the windows for signs of life.

I hopped the fence, after ensuring that there were no witnesses around to alert the cops. The last thing I needed was to spend my evening in handcuffs because Molly couldn’t get her shit together.

It was so dark that I didn’t see the back door sitting wide open until I reached the porch.

Sharp shards of wood splintered out from the frame like spikes. The door itself was torqued from the impact and the hinges squeaked in protest as I pushed it open, keeping a hand on my gun.

“Molly?” I kept my voice low, straining to hear the slightest sound over the rush of blood in my ears. I didn’t mind a good fight but wasn’t prepared for an ambush.

There was a low moan from the bedroom. My boots crunched over the door fragments as I made my way toward it. I tried flipping the switch, but the room remained dark.

Someone had cut the power, indicating that this was a planned attack.

“Molly?”

“Grey?” She whispered. “Is that you?”

“I’m here.” I felt along the wall, following the sound of her sobs before kneeling beside the bed. She was on her back, I knew that much, but it was still too dark for me to see how badly she was hurt. “Is there a flashlight?”

With a soft hiccup, she replied, “Top drawer of the nightstand,” before moaning again.

I retrieved it and quickly switched it on, flooding the small room with light.

As if it was some omen specific to me, I was greeted with the sight of blood. She shielded her eyes and turned away, but not before I saw the bruises on her face. I felt along her body, trying to find the wound. “What happened?”

She broke down again. “Carlos—beat me and, and stabbed me—”

I kept my voice steady and calm while committing the details to memory. I’d remember it later when I went after the son-of-a-bitch. “I need to stop the bleeding, doll. Where’d he get ya?”

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