Yes, Will. Yes, I do.
It takes me hours. And all I wanted to do when I got home was soak in the tub. But no. OCD-ish Molly can’t relax with a house filled with garbage. So I pick up bags of trash. I clean the kitchen counters, which are so sticky from food and booze, I have to break out the bleach. I vacuum, I dust, I even wax the wood furniture to make sure there’s no lingering rings.
Then I go upstairs and tackle the bedroom. Sheets—eew—first. I still have no idea if I had sex or not. And that bothers me. Enough for me to call my doctor out in Wolf Valley and leave a message for a referral to another primary care doctor here in town.
I lather, rinse, repeat all the cleaning I did downstairs and when I’m finally done, four hours later, I am looking at three full trash bags.
Three. I cannot even remember the last time I filled up three bags with trash.
I grab a bag, open the door that leads to the garage, flick on the light and stop dead.
Will’s truck and trailer are parked neatly in my garage. One vehicle in each of my two parking spots.
I have a flash of rain and a mountain road. Another flash of a bike on the asphalt. Then Will’s accident cycles through my brain like I’m reliving it in slow motion.
I drop the bag and slam the door.
That’s a just a memory, Molly.
Right. But a memory of what? Will didn’t crash on a mountain road, he crashed during a race. So some of that was real.
What the fuck happened to me this weekend?
Chapter Nine - Lincoln
I rewind the footage of the detective as she stalks down my outer tunnel and makes her way into my cave. What must she have been thinking? Batman. That makes me laugh. Molly Masters. Detective Molly Masters. I’m impressed.
I was so tired last night after trashing her house all day, that impromptu meeting with Case and Thomas, and the… extracurricular activity… I just came upstairs to the little house I rebuilt over the ruins of the mansion I have no memory of, and fell onto my bed.
But today I can’t get her out of my mind. I was thinking about her all day. Even Sheila noticed I was distracted. This is why I’m upstairs again. Normally I like to sleep down in the workshop. I have a bedroom of sorts down there. Bathroom and kitchen. And it’s a lot nicer than it is up here, that’s for sure. This little house is nothing but an afterthought left over from my stolen childhood.
But Sheila is everywhere down there. I have no privacy. Normally I don’t require much, but I don’t want to share this girl with anyone until I sort things out. So many nagging feelings about this Molly Masters. So many familiar things too.
I have doubts, but not enough to stop myself from drawing the only conclusion I can.
So I stretch my legs out on the bed and rewind the security footage again.
Molly is a strange combination of emotions as she walks through the tunnel. Afraid? Maybe. But she has that gun out and she’s trained in mixed martial arts. That was obvious with the takedown move she used on me back on the road. Plus, she’s pretty young to be a detective, which means she’s got something. Some skill, or some brainpower, or something that marks her as exceptional.
But does that surprise me? I shake my head.
Her expression, even in the grainy night-vision footage, is one of curiosity and determination. There is no point during this trip down the tunnel where I get the feeling she wants to turn back.
If life is a mystery then Molly isn’t afraid to go looking for the answers. And that does not fit into my current plans.
Her face is soft and round. Her cheekbones high. Her eyes are wide and bright. Hazel, I remember from seeing her out on the road. And her hair is long and light, but not blonde. It’s up in a ponytail in the footage, but not a neat one. Long, wet, twisting strands fall down and frame her face. And her clothes are what most athletic women would wear. Jeans, a sweatshirt, and a canvas jacket that says she likes the outdoors. They are nothing but mud.
I type in a web address and pull up the cameras I placed in her house—just to keep my eye on her, I told myself. Just to keep tabs on her as the drugs worked their way through her system.
But it’s a lie. I watched her last night and it wasn’t out of concern.
The style of her house is minimal, but not modern. Her couches are old and comfortable. I tried them both out. Her bedroom furniture is rustic and unpainted, her sheets a soft blue and her walls a bright white.