Where’s Molly

Nine Years Ago
2013

“I want to return this piece-of-shit TV,” the old woman snaps, her gray-and-blonde hair frazzled as she slams the receipt down on the counter.

“What was wrong with it?” my employee, Silas, asks, keeping his tone kind despite the woman’s bad attitude since she first stormed in. She’s short, clearly a smoker, and has her chest puffed like she’s tough shit. Her bones are twigs, but whatever gets her out of bed, I guess.

“It wouldn’t turn on!” she exclaims, slamming wrinkled hands on the counter. “What kind of idiot sells a TV that don’t turn on?”

Silas’s eye twitches, and I snicker beneath my breath.

“I kept pressing the damn clicker, and nothin’!”

“Did you make sure it was plugged in?”

The woman looks at Silas like he speaks an alien language, which seems only to enrage her further.

“Plugged into what?” she yells, her voice rising. “You know what, it don’t matter. Give me my money back, you piece of shit.” She tosses her receipt at Silas’s chest.

It’s almost impossible to contain my smile, considering I know the exact question about to come out of his mouth.

“Sure, ma’am. Where’s the TV?”

Again, she stares at him like she doesn’t understand.

“At my house! You think a little old lady like me can carry that in here myself? You people can’t go pick it up?”

Silas is now the one staring, completely dumbfounded. I drop my head to hide my quiet laugh.

“Uh, no, ma’am. If you want to return an item, then you need to bring it in. We don’t go to people’s houses to retrieve it.”

The lady’s mouth flops for a moment, and then she proceeds to go off on a tangent. The words ‘you people’ and ‘pieces of shit’are said so much, I’m ready to send her to an early grave and inscribe the words on her goddamn tombstone.

Eventually, I step in and send her off on her merry way, promising a return when she brings back the actual fucking TV. She didn’t argue much. Most don’t when they crack their necks simply to look up at me.

Which makes my job a fuck of a lot easier considering my regular customers aren’t wanting to buy TVs. And while I’ve worked with quite a few grandmas, they certainly weren’t harmless.

“Why are felons so much easier to deal with?” Silas grumbles, casting a dirty look at the door the old woman just exited out of.

I raise a brow. “Why do you think I created this business?”

Silas cocks his own brow mockingly. “Because you’re a smart motherfucker who learned how to do something ninety-nine percent of the population can’t do?”

“Ninety-nine percent is a bit of a stretch,” I respond dryly.

But it’s not far off.

I was twelve years old when my older sister, Olivia, paid some asshole for a fake ID. I remember her being so excited, her blue eyes sparkling as she talked about getting into her first bar.

She was sixteen years old and deep in her rebellious phase.

That weekend, Olivia got dressed up with her best friend, Kelly, and they snuck out after our mom went to bed. That was the last time I saw her, and I remember vividly calling her an idiot before she climbed out of her window and ran off into the night.

The story of what happened afterward was told through the mouth of her killer during his trial.

According to Officer James Gill, he was called to the club Olivia and Kelly tried getting into. The bouncer took one look and could see their IDs were poorly made. So, to teach them a lesson, he called the police.

Officer Gill arrived at the club ten minutes later and herded them into the back seat of his cruiser. Except, he never took them to the station.

Instead, he drove them to his house that was settled by the mountains on the outskirts of town. There, he proceeded to rape and torture them for two days until he ultimately shot them both in the back of the head.

For two years, we didn’t know what happened to them. Until Officer Gill kidnapped another girl, and unlike my sister and her friend, she escaped and lived to tell the police force what an evil man they had working for them.

After that, they searched his house and found Olivia, Kelly, and seven other girls buried on his property.

All I could think was that if my sister and her friend had never gotten shitty IDs, James Gill would’ve never entered their lives. Would’ve never put them in the back of his car and senselessly murdered them.

In my fourteen-year-old stupid-ass brain, I thought I was avenging my sister by learning how to make legitimate fake IDs for young women. It didn’t take long before I realized I was only allowing them to enter an environment full of equally evil men. They weren’t any safer and had my sister gotten in the bar that night, there’s no guarantee a different man wouldn’t have committed the same atrocious deed.

So, for a while, I had a skill that I didn’t know how to utilize.

Until one day, a kid a few years older, David, came to me and asked if I could do more than just make him a new ID. He wanted a new life.

His dad was a general in the Marine Corps and highly abusive. David felt his life was in danger every time he went home and was convinced that if he just simply ran away, his father would find him. I guess his old man had threatened as much.

It took me two weeks to figure out how to get him a new social security card and birth certificate. I even managed to get him a job on a fishing boat.

It sparked a passion I didn’t know I had. Turns out, making people disappear would be how I’d save them.

I turned eighteen and started my own business, Black Portal, an electronic store that sells TVs. But that was only my front. I sold my actual services by word of mouth in the beginning. Eventually, I got Legion’s attention from one of my clients who knew him, and he liked what I could do and sent more clients my way. He helps bring me business; in return, I help him with favors.

My only rule—I don’t help rapists or pedophiles, which isn’t an issue since Legion makes those types disappear in a more permanent way. Murderers, I take case-by-case. I’ve helped bad guys get away, but they weren’t lacking the moral compass I require if they want my help. There is such a thing as a gray area, mainly when it comes to murder.

“Jesus, is that who I think it is?” Silas whispers, his question saturated in disbelief.

My heart stops beating the second I lay eyes on her.

Molly fucking Devereaux is heading toward the counter, her eyes darting in every direction. Her shoulders are curved inward, and she’s picking at her nails anxiously. Dark brown curls are deliberately arranged around her face, but those sad, green eyes and the scar on the apple of her cheek… it’s a dead giveaway.

She was plastered all over the news when she went missing. And then her baby sister, Layla, eight months later. Most assume their father took Layla and ran, but neither has been seen since. Both girls with strange disappearances, which still haven’t been solved to this day.

It’s been almost six years since she disappeared. Now, here she is, in the flesh. And she looks no less sad than she did in her missing person poster.

“I got this one handled.” I jerk my chin at Silas, signaling for him to leave us alone. Without a word, he disappears in the back.

“They say that people who have eyes like yours are destined for a tragic death.”

There’s a slight pause to her gait, but she pushes forward until she’s a foot away, only a counter between us.

“Sanpaku eyes,” I clarify. “When you have a gap below your irises.”

“Do you greet all your guests by telling them they’re going to go out in a ball of flames?”

“That’s typically why they come to find me. I’m the one who saves them from the fire.”

She hums, distracting me from counting the freckles on her nose. I only got to fifteen, but I don’t mind restarting.

“I’m just here for a TV,” she lies.

My answering grin is involuntary. “Sure, what kind?” I question.

“Uh—” She glances around and then points to a fifty-inch flat screen. And if I had to guess, far out of her price range. “That one.”

“That’ll be five hundred dollars.”

Her wide eyes fly to mine. “Jesus,” she mumbles. “That’s literally so unnecessary.”

I point toward our cheapest TV. It’s a small box from a decade ago, but it has been refurbished.

“Fifty bucks for that one.”

Her nose wrinkles in distaste. “That doesn’t look worth more than a dollar.”

“It’s an antique.”

“It looks better suited to host a bonfire,” she retorts without hesitation.

I’m full-on smiling like a fucking fool.

“It probably is, but be careful, my employee might hear you. That’s his pride and joy.”

She raises a brow. “My condolences to his wounded ego.”

Damn. I think I love her.

She clears her throat, realizing we’ve been staring at each other with stupid grins on our faces.

“So, uh, do you take payment plans for putting out fires?”

I lean my arms on the counter, now looking up at her from beneath my brows. I can feel how wicked it is, but I’m unable to hide it.

“First, tell me your name. Mine is Cage Everhart.”

She narrows her eyes, seemingly suspicious.

“You’re telling me you don’t know who I am? Legion didn’t tell you I was coming?”

I grin, appreciating her observation.

“Legion actually didn’t warn me, the fucker. But while I do recognize you, I wanted to be careful in case you go by something else.”

She hums, then answers, “Molly. You can call me Molly.”

I hold out a hand for her to shake, which she grabs timidly. The second her skin touches mine, it feels like tiny electrical currents zapping between our palms.

“Nice to meet you, Molly,” I rasp.

If I had to hold her hand forever, it wouldn’t be long enough. However, she releases me and pulls out a black card from the back pocket of her dark blue jeans, appearing unsure. “Legion?”

She says it like it’s a question, though the gold letters say just that.

I’ve seen this card a handful of times. And every time, the person handing it over is someone who desperately needs an escape.

It also means Legion is completely covering their fee. And my prices are steep.

“Do you know where you want to go?” I ask, brushing my thumb over the foil letters. Usually, I keep the card, but I slide it back to her for reasons I can’t explain. Hesitantly, she grabs it and tucks it in her jeans again.

“Alaska.” The answer seems to burst from her throat, as if it’s been imprisoned behind her teeth.

I raise a brow in surprise. Most people try to go to the beach, where it’s warm and makes them feel like they’ve escaped to a tropical island. I could send people to places like that, but most can’t afford that hefty fee.

Ultimately, they go where I send them, though I do try to find somewhere they’re happy with. Especially if they deserve that peace.

“You like the cold?”

She shrugs, and it seems as if she’s battling with her next words.

“If I’m out in the wilderness, just me and the wolves, no one will find me. No one will recognize me. I’ve disappeared once. This time, I want it to be for good.”

My tongue forms the words to ask what happened to her that day. Who was chasing her? Did they put that haunted look in her eyes? How did she escape? And what is driving her to stay hidden from the world?

“It’s going to take my team a good twenty-four hours to obtain everything,” I tell her.

Her fingers tap on the counter, and she chews on her lip nervously.

“Does this happen to come with accommodations before I leave?” she questions, her cheeks beginning to flush red with embarrassment. “I, uhm, I don’t really have anywhere to go while I wait.”

Legion will cover all her expenses, including food and necessities. If she has that black card, she might as well have his credit card.

But I don’t tell her that part. Not yet, at least.

“Sure,” I say. “We’ll help get you set up in a hotel. Legion will cover you.”

Her shoulders fall in relief, but mine tighten.

It’s a feeling I can’t name. One that probably has some fucking obscure word to describe it. But knowing this may be the last time I see her before she leaves doesn’t settle right with me. In fact, it makes me downright desperate to ensure it’s notmy last moment with her.

Not because of who she is and what happened to her. But because, for some indescribable reason, she feels like mine.

“Give me a second to get some things sorted. Stay put, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she croaks, casting another glance around.

She’s uncomfortable, and I decide immediately that I really fucking hate that.

It’s not easy pulling my gaze away from her, but I force myself to turn and head into the back. Silas is standing in front of a stack of boxed TVs, a clipboard in his hand as he sorts through inventory.

“Go out front and keep an eye on her? Make sure she’s not recognized. I’ll only be a minute.”

“You got it,” he chirps, before setting down his clipboard and heading out to the front.

I wait a few minutes, ensuring he isn’t around, then I pull out my phone and get to work. Within a minute, I’m calling the first hotel.

“Thank you for calling the Milton Hotels. How may I help you?” a woman greets, her voice high-pitched.

“I’d like to book every available room for the night.”

There’s a pause. “I-I’m sorry, you said all available rooms?”

“Yes, please. Every single room. Until you’re fully booked and don’t have a single fucking one to spare.”

“Uhm, okay. Sure.”

Once that’s done, I proceed to call every hotel within a thirty-mile radius and book them out, too.