Nineteen
Molly threw her backpack on the kitchen table, glad the dogs were in the yard and not at her feet. The Washington Post sat folded before her. Cole, she sighed. Tracey’s smiling face covered the upper right quarter of the page, and around her neck, sparkling like a flash of metal at sea, sat the necklace that Molly held in her possession. Molly withdrew her notepad from her backpack with a sigh. She took it into the family room and sat on the couch, exhausted. Her head flopped back onto the soft cushion. She let her eyes fall closed and took a deep, relaxing breath, wondering why she had ever stopped meditating. She thought about how quickly her life had changed. It seemed to her that one day she was trying to keep up with a three-year-old, her every second wrapped around his needs, the days weaving in and out of each other, some blending so smoothly that it was hard to tell when one ended and the next began, some so terribly hard that she couldn’t wait for a reprieve—a little breathing space, a few minutes to think her own thoughts, accomplish her own grown-up tasks. And then her life had been interrupted. There had been Amanda, and the years when functioning became a goal rather than a given—the lost years. Molly sat up and sighed, remembering the therapy, the fights, the fear in Erik’s eyes when he realized that he couldn’t count on his mother for her strength or safety, and the way that look felt like a knife in her gut, initially sinking her further into depression. Eventually, that pain became the catalyst to her lifeline, her reason for pulling herself toward solid ground. And now that she had it all together—direction, confidence, her son’s trust—she was throwing herself right into the heart of an investigation.
“What am I doing?” Molly curled her legs up beneath herself and skimmed through her notepad. Visions, she wondered, or just scenes made up by a delusional mother’s subconscious? She was too tired to deal with Cole’s suspicion that her visions were just her mind working overtime, a thought she could not make go away, no matter how hard she tried. She put the notepad down and withdrew the folded messages that she’d tucked in the back of the pad. She stared at the creased pages, pages she knew she had not fabricated. They were tangible evidence that someone, somewhere, knew she was trying to find Tracey. She wondered why the person wouldn’t come forward and simply go to the police. She folded the papers, frustrated, knowing she had memorized them the first time she had read them. Molly was too irritated to relax. She wondered if Cole was right, if she should go back into therapy, try to deal with the remaining guilt of losing Amanda. The dogs barked and pawed at the rear door. Molly walked through the house feeling useless. She let the dogs in and walked back out the front door to retrieve the mail.
She leafed through the junk mail and set the rest in a pile on the counter. She let out a sigh, her hopes of finding a catalogue, or something distracting to leaf through, dashed. She’d have been happy with a coupon flyer. She fed the dogs and felt as if she were moving robotically through the motions.
Molly ran a warm bath, pouring in extra bubbles so she wouldn’t have to see her aging body distorted through the water. She pulled off her jeans and felt the unfamiliar bulge in her pocket. She gently removed the necklace and candy wrapper, and sat down on the edge of the tub in her underwear. She laced the necklace in and out of her fingers, dragging the chain across her palms. The cold metal felt lonely, hollow. The heart trinket was smeared with dirt. She walked into her bedroom and placed it, along with the candy wrapper, under her pillow. Molly finished undressing and lowered her body into the warm bubbly water, a consolation for a hard afternoon’s…What? she wondered. Work? Research? Search? She quickly decided that she had no idea what to call the way she had been spending her time lately but reassured herself that the bath was still her due. She lay back and closed her eyes. She had been drifting toward sleep when the phone rang. “Damn it,” she said, opening her eyes and bracing herself to stand up. “I got it!” Cole yelled up the stairs.
Molly sighed with relief that Cole was home. The clutter of her busy mind had finally been waylaid by the contentment of the soothing bath.
“Baby,” Cole whispered, his breath was warm against her cheek. “Have you been doing a little shopping?” She sighed and opened her eyes. “Hi.” “Tired?” he asked. “Mm-hmm,” she said, closing her eyes again. “Sweetie, you’ve got a package.” He held up the padded envelope, swinging it teasingly in front of her. “I didn’t order anything,” Molly said. “Your baseball cards? Ebay maybe?”
He shrugged and ripped open the package, shaking the contents, an old newspaper clipping, into his hand. Molly raised her eyebrows.
Cole scanned the article, “It’s an article about Rodney Lett.”
Molly read the concern in his eyes, heard the annoyance in his voice.
“It says that he was beaten to death and that he was responsible for the abduction of Kate Plummer. Mol, this is from October 1989.”
“Who sent it?” she asked, nervously rising to her feet and draining the water from the tub.
“Who knows, Molly?” he said agitated. “What exactly are you doing? Trying to get yourself killed?”
Molly tried to calm his anger and temper her own growing concern, “It’s probably nothing. It’s a gag or something. No one even knows what I’m doing.” She leaned her naked body forward and put her arms around his neck, ignoring the irritation on his face. “C’mon,” she pleaded. “Don’t ruin tonight.” Cole resisted her efforts. She kissed his cheek, his neck. “Don’t be mad at me, Cole,” she said between kisses. “I didn’t write the note.” “You need to tell the police,” his tone had softened. “Mm-hmm.” She felt the tension in his shoulders release as he pulled her toward him and kissed her lips. “Whoa, wait a minute,” she laughed, “we have to get ready. Hand me a towel?” Cole stood in front of her, leering lustily, and holding the towel just out of her reach, “Not so quickly.”
Molly blushed, turned away from him, and feigned anger. He wrapped his arms around her, the water from her wet body soaked his clothes. Standing in the bathtub brought her closer to his height. Embarrassed, Molly pushed him away, “Okay, towel, please.”
He playfully tossed her the towel, grinning like a Cheshire cat. As he walked out of the bathroom, he picked up the torn package and looked it over. “Mol, there’s no return address.” He ripped the package completely open and inside was a yellow Post-It note. Cole’s face swiftly changed from lovingly playful to clearly annoyed once again. “Molly,” his tone was serious, angry, “what the hell is going on?”
She looked at him in confusion.
He crushed the note in his fist and threw it, and the torn package, into the trash can and stormed from the room. Molly hurried over to the can to retrieve the crumpled paper, unfolding it as quickly as she could. Scrawled in pencil were the words:
LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE.
Pastor Lett stood against the wall, waiting for the right time to let her presence be known. The kid stood like a statue in the dimly-lit room. She watched the kid turn slowly on trembling legs.
Her eyes met the kid’s. “Honey,” she said in a low, gentle voice, “it’s me. It’s okay.”