No—worse. He could be connected to Francesca and try to bring me back to that house.
“Who do you work for?”
“I'm my own boss.”
“Did anyone hire you?”
“No, Molly. I do the hiring.”
Why do I believe him? No one in their right mind would consider something like this.
But my mind hasn't been right for over five years now. And at this point, what do I have to lose?
My life?
What life?
“You will have a new identity, a home, a job, a whole new life. There are very few people who deserve this more than you.”
It's like he can sense I'm on the edge of a cliff and just needed one final push.
“Okay,” I rush out, almost as if my mouth is racing the rational part of my brain. “But the second I feel something is off, I’m running.”
Another whisper of a sigh. This one sounded relieved.
“Of course. I'll text you further directions. You won't regret this, Molly.”
The line goes dead, and slowly, I pull my phone away from my ear and stare at the screen blankly.
My mind isn't racing. I'm only plagued with a single thought.
What the fuck am I getting myself into?
Molly
Present
2022
Layla is extremely athletic, and I have no fucking idea who she inherited that from.
Maybe our mother was, too, before she got into drugs. I doubt Dad lifted anything heavier than a vodka bottle in his years, though.
Regardless, my little sister is the star player on her soccer team, and she just scored her third goal.
I jump out of my seat and clap like there's a hornet in my face, but I refrain from cheering and screaming like I want to. I'd rather her parents think I'm an enthusiastic family member for another kid than wonder why there's a random stranger yelling their daughter's name.
“GO EMMA!” her mother, Margot, screams through the palms cupped around her mouth. Her husband and Layla's father, Colin, is right beside her, cheering with the same enthusiasm.
I'm so grateful they kept the name I gave her. It's what I would've named my own daughter, had I ever had one.
I knew that if I were going to keep Layla truly protected, then I couldn’t be carrying around a missing child as a missing child and blatantly calling her by the name being broadcasted across the news. While I tried to avoid the public at all costs, there were times it was inevitable. And I knew that eventually, Layla was going to grow up and learn her name, and I couldn’t risk her knowing who she was. It was necessary for her safety. And now, it’s essential for her to continue to live a safe, happy life.
Layla's long blonde ponytail swishes behind her as she does the cutest little happy dance, her teammates running to cheer with her. My eyes grow misty, pride beaming from my chest so intensely I can hardly breathe around it.
It's impossible for me to know who she is deep down inside, but I'm confident she's the best fifteen-year-old to ever exist. Funny, smart, and popular. And from what I've seen, she's so fucking kind.
Which is the only thing that truly matters to me. That, and her being provided for and loved the way she deserves to be.
But if the couple down the row from me is any indication, she has exactly that. Their expressions resemble mine. Pride, joy, and so much love, it hurts.
Or maybe it just hurts because she doesn't know my love anymore, and I only had hers for five years of her life.
The game ends an hour later, and to no one's surprise, Layla's team wins, 4-0. The girls are assembled in a huge group, all cheering and screaming their delight.
And when her parents make their way to the group and embrace Layla in an enthusiastic hug, their mouths forming the words I love you and I'm proud of you, I turn and leave.
Tears sting at my eyes as they often do after her games. Whether it's because she won, and I can't be the one to celebrate her, or because they lost, and I'm unable to console her.
Regardless, I'm so happy for her. Because even though it's not my arms that are wrapped around her, the embrace she's in is no less loving.
This is literally the worst thing to ever happen to me, particularly in the middle of a goddamn Target.
“Marie, this is my mom, Winifred,” Cage introduces us, a shit-eating grin tilting his lips. I'd love nothing more than to smack it off, but I'm currently paralyzed.
I know my eyes are the size of golf balls, and if the equally mischievous smile on his mother's face is any indication, it hasn't gone unnoticed.
She can’t be much taller than five feet, peering up at me with hazel eyes. Her short white hair curls artfully around her nape and over her forehead, perfectly styled. Bright red lipstick paints her smiling lips, and she wears bedazzled black jeans and a leopard-print blouse.