Page 39 of The County Line
“I used to tell myself every single day that one day, I’d ask my dad if he'd take you two in permanently. Hell, your old man wouldn’t have even noticed or cared that you were gone.”
I shake my head, unwilling to hear the words coming out of his mouth. Sure, I know, deep down, what he’s saying is true. But the part where he wanted to save us? The part about asking his dad to help us out? That cuts too deep. Because I would’ve loved to be part of the Marshall family permanently. They were a family that ate dinner together every night, showed up at every sports game and event, provided a safe place to land, and had a legacy of thriving businesses, clear career paths, and a support system that stretches far beyond North Carolina.
If I’d had that, maybe I wouldn’t have run away at eighteen to New Orleans, desperate for escape. Maybe I wouldn’t have packed my bags in the dead of night, heart pounding as I left a note for Maverick, telling him goodbye. I remember the sound of my suitcase wheels dragging over the gravel, the faint flicker of a streetlamp as I waited at the edge of town for the 5:45 a.m. bus. My fingers were shaking so badly I dropped my ticket twice before I could even climb the steps and didn’t dare turn around because I thought I was headed straight for freedom.
Maybe I wouldn’t have fallen for the first man who offered me attention and a shred of security, only to realize too late that he’d manipulated me just like my dad had.
Maybe I wouldn’t have a deep father wound I can’t seem to heal from, a brother who never answers my calls, and an ex-husband who lingers like a ghost in my memories.
“Don’t say that” I whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of his words. It’s not that I don’t want him to tell me how much he regrets not doing more, but because I feel like he’d already done too much for us, and I’ve been trying to think of how to repay him ever since. I look down at the dirt underneath my boots and try to do everything to avoid his eyes.
There’s a long pause. The kind of silence that stretches tight, like a rope pulled between us. I can feel his gaze on me, but I can’t meet it. Not yet. My hands curl into fists at my sides—not in anger, but in frustration. At him. At myself. At the distance the years have carved into both our lives.
Then I feel movement. He steps closer, his boots crunching against the gravel. When I finally glance up, he's dropped to his knees in front of me, one hand braced against the ground like he's anchoring himself the other firmly on my knee. His touch sends a rush of warmth from me, and it takes everything inside of me not to launch myself into his arms and when I meet his gaze, shit. It’s full of tortured regret. The night wraps around us like a heavy coat, muffling the world until all I can hear is the sound of his voice and the thud of my heartbeat.
“Maybe if I’d pushed harder,” he says, voice rough, “you wouldn’t have run off to Louisiana thinking that was your only way out. Maybe Maverick wouldn’t be God-knows-where, still tangled up with your dad. So yeah, if I’m going all in to protect a twelve-year-old girl from getting trapped by the wrong people, it’s not just about what got me sent to prison. It’s about making up for not fighting harder for you and Maverick when it mattered.”
I open my mouth to respond, but the words won’t come. They clog up somewhere between my heart and throat, too big, too messy, too honest.
He stares at me like he’s waiting—hoping—I’ll say something. That I’ll let him off the hook. That I’ll give him permission to chase this ghost of redemption he’s clinging to. But I can’t.
Because I want to tell him not everything is his fault. That we were already broken long before he found us. That he gave us more than anyone else ever had. That I remember thesandwiches he’d sneak us after school, the blanket he left on our porch that winter, the way he used to sit on the edge of the playground with Maverick when he got too angry to be around other kids and was his calming anchor. That we were all just kids trying to figure things out in a world made for adults.
But before I can speak, Colt curses, “Dammit, Molly.” Then he stands abruptly, the movement jerking me from my spiraling thoughts. He doesn’t say another word. Just stalks back toward his RV, each step kicking up dust and emotion in equal measure. The door creaks open, then slams shut behind him.
The sound echoes across the lot like a gunshot. Final. Loud. Lonely.
I’m left seated there, stunned and hollow, drowning in everything I never said.
The night is quiet again. Still. Except now it feels different and colder. The wind picks up, brushing against my arms, and I wrap them around myself. I stare at the RV, watching for movement, half-hoping he’ll come back out, half-hoping he won’t.
There’s a part of me that wants to follow him. To knock on the door and tell him he didn’t fail us. That he can’t fix the past, no matter how hard he tries and that I’m worried about Jenni too. But I also know Colt. If he handles this situation his way—charging in, fists up and emotions blazing—he’ll tear everything apart, including himself.
And I don’t want to lose him.
Not again.
Chapter 18 – Molly
It’s been five days since I last saw Colt, and I’ve been deliberately avoiding him.?
I rescheduled our weekly parole check-in, needing time to untangle my thoughts about what he’d shared with me by the creek—information given off-duty and in confidence—and to decide what my responsibility was in handling it for Jenni. Because I may have cautioned Colt about taking action, but I knew from the moment he told me about her, I’d be looking into her case.
I didn’t want Colt to get himself into trouble, driven by his need to protect her and falling into the same pattern of being burned for doing the right thing. But I also couldn’t ignore the truth in his words. If something was happening in her foster home, we have a duty to act. We must protect her but the research into the claims made needs to be handled carefully. Delicately. Not in the reckless, forceful way I knew that Colt’s instincts would push him toward.
And then there’s the guilt that I’ve been dealing with.
Guilt for questioning his intentions—for wondering why he cared so much about a girl he’d only met once—and for how my doubts might have made him feel. But mostly, it’s the nagging guilt that Colt did so much for Mav and me when we were kids, and we’ve never really repaid him for it.
I know he wouldn’t expect us to, but that doesn’t stop the thought from creeping in, a constant reminder of where I come from and how he helped us. Of the fact that I relied on him to escape things no kid should have to face.
And that’s why I’m done avoiding him.
Today, I’m going to the community center after work. I’ll find Colt, finally meet Jenni face-to-face, and figure out where to go from there. Maybe I can be a safe space for her, someone in authority that she can actually trust. Maybe I can help sort out what happens next for both her and Colt. Besides, Lydia said they’re desperate for volunteers—and I owe her one.
But first, I have one quick stop to make.
The crunch of gravel under my tires fills the quiet inside my car as I turn onto the long, winding road leading to Whitewood Creek’s largest trailer park. Three quick rights, and I’m staring at the off-white paneled trailer home where I grew up, its siding streaked with green mold that desperately needs a good power washing.
