Page 67 of In the Bones
The woman emerged from the box wall in one fluid movement, her eyes locked on Blair. Blair’s feet were rooted to the ground, but her mouth hung open in shock. There was an intruder here, in her home, and she recognized her. In the video Blair had seen on Facebook, apparently taken by one of Mikko’s neighbors, the woman’s thick, reddish-brown hair had been wild, her face scarlet. She’d looked feral, like a madwoman thrashing against the grip of two men in black jackets, one of whom had been Tim. The woman before her now looked even worse. There was a smell emanating from her body that made Blair want to wrinkle her nose.
At a loss for what to do, she said, “It’s you. What are you doing here?”
“Are you Blair?”
Blair blinked. How the hell did this person know her name?
“Your dad told me about you,” she said in response to Blair’s puzzled look. “You’re starting college soon, right? I’m Molly. Molly Kranz.”
So unruffled. So unafraid. It was as if she felt right at home in Blair’s house.
Maybe she did.
“Blair,” Molly said, “I really need to talk to your dad. Is he here?”
Blair wondered if she should run. She could call someone, Dad or Nash or Aunt Maureen, but it would take them all at least twenty minutes to get home. She knew from reading the news that the police were looking for Molly, which probably meant that she might bolt at any time. From what Blair had seen and read about the squatter, she hadn’t done anything dangerous. And if Molly was looking for Woody, she might know something about the murder.
“He’s not here right now,” she said, careful not to spook the stranger. “Are you OK? Do you need anything?”
Molly shook her head. Blair was pretty sure the woman was wearing Alana’s sneakers, but she didn’t let her gaze linger on the woman’s feet. Even-keeled as she sounded, there was a febrile energy to Molly’s limbs that made Blair worry about what she might do if she felt trapped.
“People think my dad killed her.” Blair said it before she could think it through, and the words hurt her throat.
“Woody didn’t kill her,” said Molly. “It wasn’t him.”
Blair frowned. “How do you know?”
“Because I was there the night it happened. Your dad was drunk,” she said. “Really drunk. He couldn’t have killed anyone.”
The admission felt miraculous. Molly knew something about Angelica Patten’s death. She didn’t believe that Woody could have done it. She had information that could clear Woody’s name.
Blair had to do this right.
She’d taken the internship at Stacy’s office because she’d thought it would be fun. Lots of face time with homebuyers. Hours of chitchat. Stacy had nice clothes and did her makeup every day. She’d confided in Blair that she was thinking of buying a bigger boat, the kind with a cabin down below that Caleb could nap in when he got tired. There was obviously money in real estate, especially where Blair lived. It wasn’t what she really wanted, though.
Best as she could figure, Blair had decided to be a BCI investigator in the middle school, when Aunt Maureen came to Blair’s class to talk about her work. She’d worn a blue suit and her state police jacket, looking like a badass from a crime drama on TV. Lots of Blair’s friends had gotten excited about that career path when Maureen described interviewing eyewitnesses and apprehending suspects, but in the years that followed, Blair alone had clung to the fantasy. Hiding that from Maureen had been hard. She knew how protective her aunt was, and worried she wouldn’t approve. When, a couple of years ago, Blair had flipped her dad’s truck in broad daylight, both Nicole and Maureen had freaked. To become an investigator, you had to be a state trooper first, stopping drivers who had road rage and responding to domestic violence calls, and Blair feared they’d fight her on that. But this—talking to a woman who’d made a bad choice and needed help so she, and the public, would be safe again—was what Blair had wanted all along.
“If you were there when it happened,” Blair said now, “and you know my dad didn’t do it, does that mean you know who did?”
The woman was quiet for a long time.
“Actually,” Molly said at last, “I do.”
FIFTY-SIX
Molly
Nine months ago
The music was coming from inside the walls, a guttural thump that made the house shudder, vibrating my very bones.Have you seen … do you know …an appeal played on repeat, but no one knew where Gigi had gone. Through the crowd, I spied a sliver of tattooed skin. The room tilted as I parted clammy torsos and slick limbs to reach it.
Mikko Helle was whispering something to a blonde lady with a mannish haircut. She kept laughing and laughing and touching his arm, and she was holding a huge glass of red wine. She watched me as I approached, her kohl-lined eyes two dark slashes across her face. The wine had stained her teeth the color of cinders.
“Mikko,” I said. “Hey. Hi.”
Dragging his gaze up to meet mine, the man gave me a lazy smile.
“Have you seen Gigi? I can’t find her anywhere.”
