Fourteen Years Ago
2008
It’s fucking hot outside, but even the suffocating summer air can’t deter the bone-deep chill washing through me, a reaction that only standing in front of my childhood home can evoke.
The home I was sold from.
It’s a small, yellow one-floor house with missing shingles and dirty siding. It’d be considered cute and quaint in a suburb if it wasn’t so broken down. If it fostered a happy family with loving parents.
However, in Reaper Canyon, a town that’s seen more drug overdoses than gender reveal parties, the only thing that’s been born in this shithole is half of my fucking nightmares. The other half were bred by Francesca and her filthy brother.
“This is so going to get you killed,” I mutter aloud.
At any moment, my parents could stumble out the door, lay eyes on me, and call Francesca.
I’d be forced to leave Layla behind.
I don’t have much of a heart left to break, but I’d give her the last piece of me if it meant she’d escape this house of horrors.
It took me two days of hitchhiking and bus rides to get here. An adventure that was almost as terrifying as escaping that house. I covered up my scar with dirt and lied to the drivers, telling them my car broke down on the way home from college, and I needed to get home to my sick mom.
By some grace of God, or Zeus, or whoever, the second driver I came across was a sweet old lady who offered me money. Enough to buy a hoodie from the thrift store, get something to eat, and take a bus the rest of the way home.
I got lucky and can only pray that it’s still on my side.
Steeling my spine, I trudge through the useless, rickety chain-link fence surrounding the house, and head toward the back. My feet kick through overgrown grass that nearly reaches above my knees, the blades getting tangled around my worn shoes.
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.”
My mouth drops while he cackles loudly. They wiped my kidnappers from the footage? I had hoped to God those cameras were recording, only it feels like a punch to the gut to hear that they manipulated it.
“Only reason they’re on my ass is ’cause of that fucking asshole clerk making a statement against me. I’d hoped they’d kill his ass, too, but they said it’d cost me since he ain’t got nothin’ on us. And, well, he looks just as crazy as you, so he ain’t worth the cash. Police don’t have shit on me.” He ends that statement with a smart-ass grin.
“They will,” I spit through clenched teeth. “You fucking sold me!”
Layla huddles into my neck, upset by the obvious tension between Dad and me. I bounce her in my arms, hoping to keep her calm, yet knowing it’s likely useless.
“You was useless around here anyway! Tryna steal mine and your mom’s baby. That’s all you cared about. Layla, Layla, Layla. That’s where all your money went instead of paying us rent. Just spendin’ our money and living here for free!”
An argument forms on my tongue, building to a monument as tall as fucking Giza, but it’s not worth it.
I need to get me and Layla out of here as soon as possible before my father makes good on his promise and calls Rocco here. Or someone worse.
“The only person you have to worry about is yourself,” I hiss. “Layla and I will be gone.”
Another step, and his face morphs from barely human to demonic.
“As far as I see it, she’s still in my custody. Which means she goes where I want her to go. You were a pretty penny in my pocket the first time, but you two together? I’ll get a fuck of a lot more, no?”
My upper lip curls in disgust, and a hatred unlike anything I’ve felt before consumes me. It’s so potent that the only way for my body to process it is to shake violently.
It’s not just wrath.
It’s pure fucking murderous rage.
To sell me is one thing.
But to sell a baby?
I have no words for how fucking evil that is. No words to describe how decrepit a soul must be to condemn a child so willingly in such a horrific way.
My vision grows spotty with fury, and I set Layla down in the crib as calmly as possible. She lets out a cry of protest, raising her arms and squeezing her tiny hands for me to pick her up again.
“I’ll be right here, baby. It’s okay,” I assure her gently, even though my words tremble.
That doesn’t soothe her. But more than anything, I need to get this vile man away from her.
She doesn’t deserve to witness what I plan on doing to him. No child should ever see that.
“Let’s go downstairs and discuss this. Otherwise, I’ll call Rocco myself and tell him you kidnapped me back.”
He scoffs out a laugh. “You think they’ll believe that?”
“You’re right,” I agree mockingly. “You’re too stupid. I’ll tell them I escaped, and you tried selling me off to another fucking pedophile ring. They’ll still take us, then they’ll kill you, too.”
Suddenly, his mouth twists into a scathing snarl. He glances up and down my form, his muddy brown eyes filled with loathing. Silently, he jerks his head toward the hallway, then stalks off toward the staircase.
“I’ll be right back, pretty girl,” I murmur absently, white noise flooding my brain.
There is no clear thought in my head, just a loud ringing. Woodenly, I follow him, gently shutting Layla’s door behind me. I’m not sure if she can climb out of her crib or not, but she’s still too little to reach the doorknob. She won’t be able to get out.
I reach the top of the steps and stare down them blankly, understanding that he’s waiting for me and what this discussion is going to come down to, yet unable to find a conscience to stop myself.
I exhale and make my way down the stairs, finding my dad waiting in the kitchen. He’s leaning against the counter, sipping out of the same mug he’s always drank out of. Coffee and a shot of Jack Daniels.
“Your mom used to make me lunch for work. Gotta admit, I miss ‘er for that, at least,” he comments casually, finishing with a chuckle.
He’s pretending that we will be engaging in a civil conversation, but he’s as tense as I am. He thinks he’s going to win, and for the second time in my life, I’ll wake up in the back of a stranger’s van.
This time, with my baby sister beside me.
“What is it you think you’re goin’ to do, hm?” he questions, amusement glimmering in his dead eyes. “You think you can hurt me?”
He laughs while I edge toward a tiny round table in the corner of the room, where Mom used to sit every morning, smoking a cigarette and drinking her own coffee and whiskey.
“I think I’ve faced men far scarier than you and survived.”
“You sure about that?” he challenges.
His smile dims, and his gaze slides over to the scar beneath my eye. The very one he gave me when I was ten years old.
I remember that night vividly. Back then, he still had teeth, and he lost his mind to whatever drug he injected into his veins.
He left them all over my body when he raped me.
He, on the other hand, has no recollection of it. If it wasn’t for my mom bearing witness to it, he’d be convinced it was someone else. She was also drugged and too delirious to stop him.
Afterward, when Dad attempted to deny it, that was the only moment Mom stood up for me by screaming at him for hurting me. Not because I was assaulted, but because she’d have to explain the bite on my face to the school. The others covering my body could be hidden, just not that one.
Later, she spit on me for trying to steal her husband. As if he wasn’t my own father.
Ultimately, it became the result of a play date gone wrong with a nonexistent cousin who had aggression issues. Despite that, it didn’t look like a kid’s bite; the school believed them, and it was never addressed again.
I cock my head, leaning against the table behind me and resting my linked hands on top. “Do you think a bite to the face is the worst thing that’s been done to me? I’ve lived through so much worse, Dad.”
He sets his cup on the crowded countertop, and his features slacken into a monstrous expression. Chin dropped, mouth hanging open, and an evil glare beneath his eyebrows.
“Not yet, ya haven’t,” he threatens darkly.
He edges toward me casually, as if he isn’t planning my death. Not by his hands, of course. But by the highest bidder’s. While he snorts, smokes, and injects the only form of happiness he’s ever felt. Until escaping reality becomes eternal.
Just like it did with Mom.
Behind me sits her discarded mug. It’s likely been there since she died—forgotten.
Just like her.
I’d like to think this is Mom extending the hand she never extended when she was alive. A peace offering, maybe.
Subtly, I loop my finger through the handle, and he pauses a few feet away. Right out of arm’s length, making me sigh.
If only she gave that much of a shit.
Time stands still, except for the consistent beat inside my chest, reminding me that I’m still alive. I’m still fighting.
Then, he lunges, and I’m swinging, the mug in my hand cracking against his temple. Ceramic shatters, and a shard cuts into my palm.
He roars, and his arm swings out wildly, attempting to grab ahold of me. But if there’s one thing I learned about people with more artificial chemicals in their bodies than blood—they have no fucking aim.
I duck and tackle him to the floor while he’s unbalanced, the back of his head smacking off it harshly. A curse flies out of his mouth and he’s grappling to get a leg up so he can flip me over. But I’m already on top of him, a piece of the mug gripped between my fingers and pressed against his jugular.
It only lasts half a second, and he’s carelessly knocking away my hand before sending a fist flying toward my face. Just barely, I flinch to the side, his knuckles clipping my cheek and sending a shooting pain throughout my face.
But my desperation outweighs the sting, and I’m rushing to get my knees over his biceps. Several times, he deters me, nearly throwing me off just for me to crawl back onto him. Finally, I send my own fist into his nose, allowing me to stun him long enough to get his arms pinned beneath my knees, putting all my weight onto him.
I press the piece back into his jugular again, the shard having already shredded my own skin from the struggle.
“Make one fucking move, and I’ll slit your throat, asshole,” I spit through heavy pants.
My hand trembles against him, my vision narrowing until all I see is his disgusting face, contorted in rage with gray scruff covering his jaw.
“You’re a pathetic man,” I snarl. “And there isn’t a single soul on this planet that will care when you’re gone.”
He laughs, and his rotten breath fans across my face. I dig the sharp end deeper, a bead of blood blooming from the tip.
“That don’t matter to me, baby. Come on, you know better than that. Even if I was a fucking stand-up citizen, I’d go down in history like everybody else. Forgotten. My name carved in some stupid gravestone that people pass by and don’t look twice at. And ya know what? The same thing will happen to you.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I say, my voice breathless and trembling. “But at least when I go down, I’ll be able to say I took as many of you sick fucks as I could with me.”
Another full belly laugh releases from his throat, though the desperation is evident. He doesn’t want to die, and at any moment, he’s going to renew his fight.
So, I make a quick decision and slice the opposite side of his throat. He’ll bleed out eventually, but it won’t be over before I’m ready.
His eyes widen, and his mouth flops while he chokes on his own blood. Blood that spurts onto my face, neck, and chest.
“Fucking bitch!”
Uncaring, I lean forward until his eyes find their way to mine, his pupils little pinpoints.
I shake my head. “No. You don’t get the privilege of seeing me while you die.”
Dropping the ceramic, I cup his face between my palms and place my thumbs over his eyes.
“No, no, no!” he shouts, though the words are garbled. His fingers wrap around my wrists, attempting to pull them away. But the blood loss has made him weak, and he fails miserably.
It takes a few seconds of pushing until I feel his eyes pop. His answering scream is loud, broken, and full of agony. It’s a sound I’ve grown accustomed to with other girls in Francesca’s house. Before, it shattered my heart when I heard it. Now, I feel nothing.
Crimson puddles in the craters of his pulverized eyes, flooding my hands, and down either side of his face. A sea of red.
I chuckle aloud. “Moses probably wouldn’t appreciate me calling your face the Red Sea, huh?” I laugh again, the sound hoarse and broken. “Then again, he probably isn’t appreciating any of this.”
I don’t stop until I’ve smashed them into his puny brain and his struggles cease.
The earth got a little cleaner today.
His hands drop from my arms, and as he goes completely limp, so do I. I just… deflate. Like his eyeballs, I suppose.
That thought wrings another tired giggle out of me.
I’m covered in blood, sweat, and probably other shit I don’t want to know about. My heart is racing, and my lungs are incredibly tight.
Killing… killing is a lot of fucking work.
Then, my thoughts spiral, and panic overtakes me. How the fuck am I going to cover this up?
“Shit,” I whisper, dropping my head.
Thankfully, the neighbors are drug addicts, too, and there were many nights when they were in screaming matches that rivaled Mom and Dad’s. Our struggle shouldn’t raise any of their concerns, and even if it did, I doubt they’d be kind enough to call the police.
As for his job, it’s not unusual for Dad to not show up without warning. He’s lost many jobs over the years, primarily due to him going on binges. Sometimes for weeks at a time. They might call for a week, but eventually, they’ll give up.
Same for his friends—they don’t bother coming over unless he’s offering them drugs.
Raymond Devereaux doesn’t have anyone that actually gives a shit about him.
But he is in the public eye now.
Francesca used to turn on the TV and show me all the news reports and search parties after I was kidnapped. She would laugh and laugh about how many people were looking for me.
“Look at aaalll those people. And not a single one will find you.”
She found that funny.
And now, I need to ensure that’s exactly what happens. They can never find me. They can never know I came back here.
That couple—Latoya and Devin—might talk to the media. Claim they had me in their house. But they’ll never be able to prove it, and eventually, speculation will become just that.
“No evidence,” I whisper. “There can’t be any evidence.”
My DNA is all over this house. Finding pieces of my hair or fingerprints on every surface wouldn’t be out of the ordinary.
However, on a dead body? That would be catastrophic.
I inhale deeply and then release it slowly, feeling my brain switch off once more.
No one is looking for him yet. I have time to clean up, get Layla situated, and then dispose of his body.
After, I’ll take Layla out of here and never look back.
“What to do with you,” I wonder aloud, heading for the limited cleaning supplies beneath the sink, racking my brain and trying to remember the crime documentaries I’ve seen Mom watch and if any of them ever talked about getting rid of a body.
“Melting him?” I ask myself under my breath. “No. Too messy, and I don’t even know the proper chemicals. Can’t bury him or put him in a lake. That always gets people caught.”
My mind turns over idea after idea while I wrap his body in garbage bags, rejecting them all for one reason or another.
And just as I begin to scrub the floor, I remember one episode I had seen. A proverbial light bulb illuminates, and I pause as I think it over.
“Pig farm,” I whisper, a slight grin curling my lips.
And I know just where to find one.
