The back door leads directly into the laundry room. I can't remember the last time Mom or Dad even smelt detergent, let alone used it to clean clothes, so it's a guaranteed area of the house that they won't be in.
Dad’s car is parked outside. There aren’t strange cars like there usually were in the past, so I'm fairly confident they don't have any of their dirty friends over. The only thing I need to worry about is my parents seeing me before I see them.
Adrenaline courses through my bloodstream, amping my heart rate up to catastrophic levels. Eight months ago, I would've never been capable of this. Now, I don't know that I'm capable of feeling anything for anyone outside of my baby sister.
Not even for myself.
Breath stutters out of my lungs, and my lips are bone dry as I silently open the back door. I only crack it far enough to allow my body to fit through. Once it reaches the halfway point, the hinges start creaking.
The house is eerily silent, causing the hairs on my nape to stand on end. Typically, there's a TV playing cartoons in the background—for my dad’s viewing pleasure, not Layla's. Or my mom screaming at the top of her lungs about what a lazy piece of shit my father is and how they have no money for their heroin because of it.
He had no problem yelling back and definitely didn't have an issue with raising his hand to her. She'd walk away with bruises, and he'd storm out the front door to go score them some more drugs, which resulted in them owing more people money.
They were dirt poor—until they sold me, of course.
Working to swallow, I creep over the pile of dirty clothes discarded haphazardly on the rotting, filthy, white linoleum floor.
I peek around the corner into the filthy kitchen. Aqua blue cupboard doors sag open, unable to close anymore. Dishes are piled in the rusting sink with flies buzzing above them, remnants of food and mold caked onto the steel and cutlery. They’re also scattered across the peeling countertops, along with several opened bean and soup cans.
I balk at the awful stench. When I lived here, I grew used to it. Except now, the rot and lingering cigarette smoke bleached into the wallpaper is all I can smell. I, at least, tried to keep it clean .
Covering my nose, I make my way through the kitchen and plant myself against the wall next to the entrance of the living room.
Slowly, I peek around the corner, finding it empty. Sweat gathers along my hairline and creeps down my spine.
Everything about this scenario is unusual. And that makes me really fucking nervous.
Fuck, is Layla even here?
If she's not, I don't know what I'll do. I have no resources to find her. I have nothing.
Fucking nothing.
Panic begins to circulate into my system, a dangerous cocktail when mixed with the adrenaline.
But I can't lose my mind right now. Not yet.
“Keep it together, Molly,” I whisper.
Inhaling what's supposed to be a calming breath, but is only toxic fumes, I charge through the empty living room and toward the stairs. My footsteps are silent atop the putrid green carpet covering the room, all the way up the steps and along the short hallway.
I peek into the room to my right first—Layla's nursery. It has a rickety crib inside, the cot within stained, sans a sheet, and with a threadbare blanket.
Relief overtakes me, and tears spring to my eyes, flooding my sinuses and throat until I nearly choke on them.
“Layla,” I squeak, my voice splitting like dry wood.
Blonde hair spills around her like a halo while she slumbers. It's grown longer since I've last seen her. Her cheeks are still too hollow for my liking, but at least she's breathing. And right now, that's the only thing that matters.
I sniffle as I hurry toward her, praying to God she remembers me. I've been gone for eight months, which is far too long when she's so young. She's only a year old now and likely won't recognize my face anymore.
“Layla,” I whisper, gently shaking her shoulder.
Long, blonde lashes splay across her cheeks, which are also paler than I'd like.
“Layla,” I call again, glancing over my shoulder to ensure no one is coming.
Her eyes flutter, and then she gives me those big, beautiful blue eyes. Pretty much the only good thing that came from our mother.
“Hey, sweet baby. It's Molly. Your big sister,” I coo sweetly.
She peers up at me silently, as if trying to figure out who I am. She was only four months old when I was taken, so I don't expect her to know me. I just hope she can find it in her to trust me.
“Hi, my sweet girl,” I whisper, brushing away a blonde hair from her eyes.
Her arms rise, and instantly, I'm cradling her against me.
The tears bubble over, spilling down my cheeks in rivers, and it’s almost impossible to breathe. I've been dreaming about this very moment for eight long, torturous months, and it almost doesn't feel real.
Like any second, I will wake up in that bed in Francesca's house, Rocco breathing over me.
Just like that, I'll lose her again.
I don't know if I'd survive it.
“Da da da da,” she blabbers quietly.
“Shh, baby, we gotta be—”
“I knew you were going to show your ugly face here.”
The sharp voice is like a whip cracking against my back. My spine snaps straight, and I pivot on my heel quick enough to cause me to stumble.
My heart hammers painfully against my chest as I take in the source of all my pain. The man who was supposed to love me but could only ever hurt me. And one of the last faces I saw before that cloth covered my mouth, and I woke up in a nightmare worse than anything my brain could conjure up.
“Hey, Dad,” I greet nervously, the tremor in my voice betraying how terrified I am.
He takes a menacing step forward, prompting me to retreat immediately.
His gray, greasy hairs stand haphazardly on end, and though his eyes are full of hatred and disbelief, it's clear he's just woken up. He's wearing his dirty button-up work shirt, with Raymond stitched onto the left breast pocket.
He's a mechanic, and of course, it's time for him to go to work.
“W-where's Mom?” I choke out, my gaze ping-ponging between his menacing stare and the hallway behind him.
His lip curls. “Dead.”
I blink, more shocked by his declaration than I expected. Maybe because she’s survived so much abuse from my father and other men, it seemed like she was indestructible. Or because there were so many nights where I laid awake, praying for her death, and it never came.
I'm surprised.
But not fucking sad.
“How? ”
“Overdose.”
“Let me guess, from the drugs you bought with all the money you made from selling me?” I snap.
His grin is full of intentions as rotten and black as his teeth.
“Died a couple weeks ago. Dumb bitch got too excited and injected herself with some strong shit we ain't ever had before,” he clips. Then, he chuckles, the sound raspy and wet. “And now you're back. Rocco called yesterday lookin' for ya. Promised me 'nother fifty-K if I let him know when you showed up.”
My heart drops, another shot of panic torpedoing through my insides, landing in the pit of dread welling in my stomach.
I need to get the fuck out of here now.
“Whad'ya do? Give ’em bad sex or som'n'?” he asks nastily.
I narrow my eyes. I can't even be insulted. He talks as if it was my choice to be enslaved and groomed to be sold to a disgusting sick fuck. Like I did the family a fucking favor.
“Ya know, I may not call 'im. I might just have to find me some different people this time 'round. Police have been investigatin' me. Think I had somethin' to do with that whole shitshow with you in the gas station.” A loud laugh bursts out of him. “Did you know they can wipe people from security footage? Don't know what kind of genius they got on their hands, but they made you look fuckin’ crazy. Me and Louis weren't even in 'em! Every day I turn on the news, they're talkin' ’bout you running from ghosts.”