Page 39 of Jagger
Because if they did, they'll pay with their lives. And as for Aphrodite…she better have a fucking stomach bug because if anyone has hurt her, they're dead too.
I board the flight and ignore the woman chatting beside me about how it's her first flight and how excited she is. She finally gets the message and looks at me warily before plugging in her earphones. I have nothing on me—not even a jacket. All I have is my phone, and that's all I need. The flight takes forever, but I'm soon speeding to the hospital in a cab. It feels like I've been in cabs and flights for days, but it's barely noon. I rub my tired eyes and ask the receptionist for Aphrodite's location.
"Are you family?" the girl asks sweetly, fluttering her eyelashes at me.
"Yes."
All she has left. Because if my mom is as good an aunt as a mother, she doesn't count.
The elevator is painfully slow. But eventually, I'm there, opening her door.
And I lose it.
20
MOLLY
I can't drive for shit. I didn't think it would be this hard, for fucks sake—but I just can't get it right. It's supposed to be easy—navigate the steering and push a damn pedal, right?
Urgh.
I begrudgingly park the car a few blocks from Jagger's house and leave the keys on the seat—hopefully, someone will steal it and cause him a world of pain and drama—it's the least he deserves. I catch a bus into town and buy a box of black hair dye and throwaway brown contact lenses. That's for when I'm in Spain because I need to match my passport photo to get out of here. I know that Mr. Dahla will help me out when I get to Spain, but if I can change my appearance as soon as possible, that's less chance of anyone knowing who I am. I doubt Lawson has contacts in Spain, but at this point, I don't want to put anything past him. I buy a cheap phone and pray my aunt has enough room left on her credit card to pay for my flight out of here.
My poor aunt. My heart aches at the thought of what she must've gone through—burning to death may be one of the worst ways to go, and she died because of me. I still don't understand why Lawson would burn her house down with her in it—but Idon't understand him at all, so I won't even try. It's clearly to give me a message.
Received, Lawson. Loud and clear.
My heart races when I see someone familiar on the street, and I duck into a little cafe, praying he doesn't see me. I don't know who it is exactly; I only recognized the mouth from what I could see beneath his cap. He passes the window without a second look, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe I should grab a baseball cap—I couldn't even see the guy's face. It's a good idea. I plan to get one when I leave here.
The cafe is busy, but only because it has TVs. Starbucks can't compete with that, plus it's cheaper here.
I order a coffee to go, and while I wait, I watch the TV on the wall. It's showing the news, and someone's car is on fire. There's nothing but bad news, so I turn my attention away. I have enough negativity without watching more. Why don't they put music on or something?
My body keeps trembling, and I push my worry away. The last thing I need is a mental fucking breakdown.
But I've been kidnapped and raped, for fucks sake. Most people would have had some kind of breakdown by now, especially with my history.
My mind drifts to Jagger again, and I want to smack myself.
Why am I thinking about him?
It doesn't make any sense, but I keep thinking of him. I want to know why he did what he did, and I want him to pay for it.
If I leave town, he will get away with it. But if I stay, Lawson will probably kill me. He won't ever let me go. This adds another question: Whydidhe let me go after Jagger had his way with me?
It makes no sense, and I'm too wired to think. Coffee probably wasn't the best idea.
"Cappuccino for Emma?" the barista calls, looking blatantly at me. Only then do I remember I made the name up on the spot, wishing I had thought it through. But Emma was like Em, as in M for Molly, so I went with it.
Emma. Hardly original.
I tremble as I take the styrofoam cup from her and mumble my thanks, moving away before I hear the TV say my best friend's surname. It's unique enough to stop me in my tracks.
Dahla.
I freeze before twisting around slowly, the color draining from my face as I stare at the screen. It's like a nightmare—the burning car wreck, the bold letters screaming that Leonard Dahla and his wife were dead, killed in a car accident.
At first, I just stand there, tears streaming down my face until someone asks me if I'm okay.
