Page 72 of The Followers

The official discussion forum for Molly Sullivan of An Invincible Summer

MissLovelyPeach posted:

What was up with that random live Molly did in the middle of the night? Poor thing looked just awful.

IhateMollySullivan4Eva replied: P

lease. No sympathy for Miss Molly the Invincible. Sounds like she’s having trouble in paradise with the Mister. I’m sure it’s some stupid little thing like he forgot to take out the trash and she’s turning it into Major Internet Drama (TM). Her lack of self-awareness is staggering.

MamaLlama99 replied:

I don’t know, I’m with @MissLovelyPeach. It was weird. Molly wasn’t herself—she looked really upset.

MissLovelyPeach replied:

Has she posted anything else yet today to explain it?

MamaLlama99 replied:

Nothing. Literally nothing on any platform all day. It’s weird.

thirty-seven

Everyone has a story. Are you willing to read between the lines, to glimpse the truth?

@InvincibleMollySullivan

Molly dropped the girls off at Liv’s that evening and headed back home, trying to think about what she would say to Scott when he returned. Her sense of betrayal was so huge it was difficult to put it into words. The summer heat had worsened, today a record high. The world felt like a giant oven, baking her meandering thoughts into hard facts.

First of all, he had lied to her, multiple times. Second, he’d changed his identity, his entire personality. She didn’t even know him. They weren’t legally married. After being deserted by her first husband with zero warning, the fear of a repeat event still lingered.

But something else bothered her, as well. It had to do with the things she’d found in Scott’s safe. She remembered them vaguely: notebooks, old letters, the cross necklace. At the time she’d been fixated on the birth certificates, but now she wondered about the other things. Especially the cross, and the matching tattoo on his forearm.

And most of all, where they were now.

He might have thrown them away, but she didn’t think so. Not when he’d preserved them so carefully in the safe. Had he put them in the attic somewhere, stuffed them inside one of his unpacked boxes? No. He would put them somewhere she never went. Some place that was his alone.

With a burst of energy, half inspiration, and half dread, she walked out through the back door, across the stone patio to the driveway where the VW Westfalia crouched like an old green troll against the garage. She’d only been inside it when Scott had taken her for an overnight camping trip when they were dating, and she paused before opening the door. It had always struck her as sad, this temporary home of Scott and Ella’s. A nomadic life, driven by grief.

But what if it wasn’t driven by grief, but by guilt?

She heaved open the heavy sliding side door and peered inside. The interior of the Westfalia was clean and neat, the way Scott always kept things. On the far side stood a compact kitchen of faux-wood laminate, to her left a seat that folded into a bed, and to her right a small bank of cabinets. The air was stale and hot, speckled with floating motes of dust that she imagined as tiny secrets. Visible, but if you tried to catch them, they floated away.

She pulled herself into the camper and sat on the green vinyl bench. She started with the cabinets, but a quick perusal revealed nothing useful: assorted camping supplies, playing cards, and an old lighter. The kitchen cupboards revealed more of the same: pots and pans, utensils, tiny salt-and-pepper shakers. Artifacts from Scott’s earlier life, but nothing that helped her now.

Frustrated, she slumped back against the bench, and the force of her slump caused a small squeaking sound from underneath. As if the bench weren’t completely attached at the bottom.

Molly hopped off the seat, kneeling on the linoleum floor. The late-afternoon sun beat into the van’s interior, and the backs of her knees and armpits dampened with sweat. She put her hands under the bottom of the bench and pushed up. It didn’t lift, but it did jiggle. She walked her hands down both sides, feeling as she went, and her left hand hit something smooth, metallic. A latch.

When she released it, the seat bottom lifted. Inside were jumper cables, a battery charger, and greasy bottles of motor oil. She rocked back on her heels, disappointed once more, then decided to dig around.

Under the coiled jumper cables she found a black garbage sack, tucked and folded to make a small, dark package. She lifted the contents out and placed them on the floor of the Westfalia.

A leather notebook.

Five spiral-bound notebooks.

A Ziplock bag containing a delicate gold cross necklace.

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