Page 82 of The Followers

That sucks. Can I come in?

I don’t want to get you sick.

Okay

Call me later?

Sure.

Although she wouldn’t. She’d been deluding herself, thinking she could keep these people she’d grown to love—not just Ella, but Molly and messy little Chloe. And funny, challenging, sweet, contradictory Jeremiah.

A sob threatened to escape, and she stuck a pillow over her head. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Staying in Durango wasn’t an option. All she could hope was that she hadn’t damaged Molly and Scott’s lives beyond repair. Maybe once she was gone, Scott would realize she wasn’t a risk. But she wouldn’t have been a risk in the first place if he hadn’t kidnapped Ella. He was at fault here, too.

She didn’t expect forgiveness from Molly, but maybe someday she could write a letter to Ella. Let her know something about her mother, about the family who loved her.

Last night, Liv had tried to call Oliver, but he hadn’t answered. He wasn’t responding to her texts, either, and Liv felt abandoned. She needed her brother to help her think through this.

On the other hand, maybe it wouldn’t help to talk to him. He would give her an I told you so lecture and go on about long-term solutions again. She was too heartsick for that. She’d ruined any chance of having a relationship with Ella, she’d ruined her only friendship in years, and she might have destroyed Molly’s marriage.

Another sob started to squeeze her throat, and she forced herself to take deep breaths. She had two weeks left at her job, but she could get out of it. Make up some kind of family emergency. It wouldn’t even be a lie.

Her only option, at this point, was to leave. She would text Molly and let her know she was leaving town. Reassure Molly that she wouldn’t tell anyone a thing about Scott’s past, that all she wanted was for Ella to be safe and happy.

forty-five

“I am, and always will be, the optimist. The hoper of far-flung hopes, and the dreamer of improbable dreams.”

—Eleventh Doctor

Pinned to Molly’s Pinterest board

“Words to Live By”

The next morning, Molly was ready to talk.

After leaving Liv’s the night before, Scott had driven them home silently. The girls must have known something was wrong, because they went to bed without a fuss. Scott didn’t say another word, just headed out to the backyard with a six-pack of beer and a bottle of scotch.

Molly had gone to her office to get some space from him. Partly because she had no idea how he would act if he got drunk—and she didn’t want to find out—but mostly because she needed to sort through what she’d learned about Liv. Setting aside her feelings of betrayal, she’d tried to put herself in Liv’s shoes, to imagine losing her sister and niece in one horrible night. Of course Liv would want to see Ella. But did that mean she planned to turn Scott in? Try to get custody of Ella for herself?

She wasn’t ready to talk to Liv about this yet—the deception felt too fresh—and Molly was grateful she hadn’t told her about the other things she’d found, or about Scott’s confession. Not only had he taken his daughter away and changed his identity, he had killed someone—accidentally, and sort of in self-defense, but would a judge and jury agree? They wouldn’t have seen Kristina agitated, lunging toward Scott. His daughter, malnourished and neglected.

The weight of that sank into Molly’s chest. Ella could have died if Scott hadn’t shown up. From neglect, from some sort of accident, at the hands of a drug dealer coming into Kristina’s apartment. Scott had saved Ella from that.

Molly believed in responsibility and accountability, in theory. But if Scott had stuck around, he might have gone to prison. Which meant his little girl would have gone—where? Not to Liv, who’d been a teenager at the time. Maybe there was other family, but Molly didn’t know. Ella might have ended up in foster care.

She then put herself in Scott’s shoes, twenty-three years old, alone and afraid, trying to protect his baby girl. Could Molly blame him? If Chloe were in a similar situation—the thought made her sick—she would have done anything to keep her safe.

Bottom line: Molly knew Scott. In every other circumstance, he had never been anything but honorable, trustworthy, and selfless. She may not have known the details of his past, but she knew his character. Didn’t she?

Maybe she was deluded, blinded by her feelings for him, or so committed to the fantasy of a perfect marriage that she couldn’t allow herself to see the relationship clearly. That had happened with her first husband; she’d ignored the warning signs.

But still. Something about the situation with Scott didn’t make sense.

When Molly went to the kitchen for breakfast, Scott was already sitting at the table, looking hungover as he sipped his coffee. Despite how awful he must be feeling, he’d fixed a mug for her, and she hoped that meant something. If not an apology, at least an olive branch. She sat across the table from him and took a sip. Except for his bloodshot eyes and weary expression, except for the dread sitting like a weight in her stomach, it was the same thing they’d done all summer.

“We need to talk,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm, measured. “Please look at me.”

She said the words gently as she touched his hand, and his eyes met hers. This time she saw the apology in them, the regret she hadn’t seen the day before, a raw sorrow and bleak hopelessness that took her breath away.