Page 18 of Where's Molly

Said mouth drops, and he grabs my hand, pulling me after him as he laughs.

What a dick.

He’s lucky it’s a really fucking nice one.

Molly

Fourteen Years Ago

2008

Sweat soaks through myclothing, my curls matted to the back of my neck, as I stumble over another fallen branch. I gasp, scarcely catching myself on a nearby tree.

The sun rose, set, and rose for a second time. Over twenty-four hours have passed since I ran from Francesca's house. Too many hours to be subjected to the heat in the middle of June, though at least the shade from the trees offered some protection from direct sunlight.

I don't need a mirror to know that my face is sunburnt and tomato red. However, I’ve made it this far, I can go just a little longer.

Anything for Layla.

I’ll riskeverything for her, as long as I’m with her.

In the distance, there’s a break in between the trees where a structure peeks through. My overworked heart stops in my chest, and for several moments, I can’t breathe. Can’t even blink.

I’m terrified that if I do, it’ll disappear, only a figment of my imagination.

If it's only an illusion—something my brain created to protect me from my harsh reality—I think I’ll let myself burn to death, only so when I do crumble to ash, there’ll be nothing left to put back together.

That same fear drives me forward, my feet tripping over the ground once more, though not from trees that have shed their bark, but from pure desperation.

My vision blurs with tears, and my nose burns from my effort to keep them at bay. I can’t lose it now. Not when I’m so close to being able to find Layla again.

The graveyard of crooked branches and green leaves gives way to a blue, sunny sky, showcasing a quiet suburb of homes beneath.

My lips part, and a choked gasp leaks past the chapped skin. Once again, I’m running, this time toward the closest house. It’s quaint and tan with freshly painted brown shutters. The type of home that burrows a happy, white-picket-fence type of family in its warm embrace.

In the front yard is a man mowing his lawn, muttering soundlessly beneath the loud buzz of the machine. He appears in his forties, with dark brown skin and a thick salt-and-pepper beard. Sweat glistens on his bald head and coats his t-shirt as he cuts the grass beneath the hot sun.

“Help!” I shout, though the single syllable shatters as it’s forced through a throat lined with sharp gravel.

His head snaps up, revealing a startled gaze, his eyes widening further when he sees me barreling toward him.

“Help!” I repeat. “I was kidnapped, I need help!”

He quickly switches the mower off, the sudden silence amplifying my desperate cries. I nearly slip, the worn soles of my shoes no longer gaining any traction on the loose grass like they did on the forest floor.

He holds up his hands—to stop or catch me, I’m not sure—but I throw myself into them anyway. He grabs ahold of my biceps, and though he’s taken aback, his grip is firm.

A sob bursts from my throat, and another choked plea for help follows suit.

“Please, help me. Please, please!”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, you’re safe. Let’s… shit, Latoya!” He trips over his words, ending it with a desperate call for who I assume is his wife.

“You’re safe now, it’s okay— Latoya! Latoya, get out here!”

A door creaks and a soft voice asks, “What’s going on? Who is that?” Urgency taints the last few notes of her second question, and I hear the rapid trek of her footsteps coming toward me.

“She—she just came running out of the woods calling for help,” he explains, his words jumbling together.

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