Where’s Molly
: Chapter 2

Fourteen Years Ago
June 18th, 2008

I read over the last word I wrote on the page before snapping the journal shut. It’s a diary I’ve been secretly writing in for the past couple weeks. It’s been my only form of release, but I refuse to take it with me, even if it was the only thing that kept my detonating sanity somewhat intact. It’s the only outlet I had for my pent-up rage.

And it can burn with the rest of this house, for all I care.

I hope to God another girl never replaces this journal. That would mean she replaced me, and no one—no one—should ever have to experience the horrors of this house. No one innocent, at least. I wouldn’t care if Francesca, Rocco, or any of his friends got a taste of their own poison one day. It’s the least they fucking deserve.

My broken heart is pounding heavily against my chest, the jagged pieces cutting up the inside with each beat. However, the adrenaline coursing through my veins mutes the pain. The only thing I can feel is determination and fury. So much fucking fury.

I’m not waiting any longer. I can’t.

Francesca has something planned for us in two days, and while I suspect we’ll be auctioned off, she never said.

All I know—I can’t be here when it happens.

Another day in this hellhole, and I’ll lose my fucking mind. Another day without Layla, and I’ll kill anyone I have to, even if it ends in my own death. It’ll only be my body that dies, anyway. They’ve already destroyed my soul, and all that’s left is an empty house that has seen as many tragedies as the one I’m planning to escape tonight.

My pulse thuds in my ears as I quietly slide out of my bed and tiptoe to the hole beneath the floorboard. When I first arrived here, I noticed the panel was loose, and after a week’s effort, I finally managed to pry it up. It was just a dirty hole, but now it’s the home of all my secrets and heartache.

With trembling hands, I set the journal inside, carelessly dropping the pen in after it. Then, I slide the wooden piece back into place.

There’s no clock in here, but Rocco and his friends have quieted completely, which means they likely passed out. According to Francesca and her constant complaining, that typically happens around two or three AM every night.

I’ve been preparing for this for months.

And now that it’s finally here, I’m terrified I missed something. A small detail I didn’t plan for when I’ve done nothing but plan.

The only thing separating me from freedom are these thin walls and miles and miles of woods.

That, and the guard stationed outside the house. I’ve stayed up from dusk to dawn several nights to watch him, forgoing precious sleep to learn his schedule and habits. Which often led me to getting in trouble for falling asleep during lessons. Though Francesca has long since grown tired of my disobedience, she won’t get rid of me either.

I’m one of four who made it through the Culling—a twisted game a group of pedophiles and rapists created for sport. The objective is to put us in the woods filled with traps, where they’ll hunt us with crossbows. If we’re hit, we’re punished. If we win and outrun them, we’re considered superior meat and then put up for auction.

It’s an insult to kidnap us only to make us prove ourselves worthy of being kidnapped.

It makes no fucking sense and was only created so bored rich people can be less bored.

They’ll never get the fucking chance.

Inhaling a deep breath, I creep toward my bedroom door. The crickets chirp loudly from outside my window, as if they’re cheering me on. Rooting for a precarious escape. One that is likely to kill me.

But I’d rather die rebelling than die submitting.

Sweat forms along my brow as I slowly turn the rusty knob, cringing when it squeals. I swear to God, this house was built when the dinosaurs roamed and is filthier than Francesca’s sins.

The hinges creak, though it doesn’t stop me from swinging open the door. There are three other girls sleeping in their respective rooms. There’s a chance that if one of them catches me, they’ll alert Francesca. But I’ve long since accepted that I’ll kill anyone who gets in my way.

No one will keep me from Layla.

My heart races, gaining momentum and slamming against the inside of my chest as I sneak down the long hallway. Aside from my own pulse, it’s dead silent. And fuck, is it creepy.

It’s always felt haunted here, yet I was convinced it was by the living. Now, I’m not so sure. Or maybe our sadness is potent, even in our dreams.

I bite my lip, holding my breath while I make my way down the steps, avoiding every soft spot in the wood that creaks. The first thing my eyes gravitate to is the green neon numbers blaring from the stove.

2:30 AM. Perfect.

Moonlight spears through the kitchen window, but I don’t bother with anything in here. I’ve learned to go days without food and water. But I don’t plan on depriving myself for long, seeing as I’m confident there’s a town nearby.

Francesca’s favorite helper, Rio, makes weekly trips to the grocery store, only gone for a few hours before he returns, and they certainly don’t buy in bulk. There has to be a place I can run to and call for help.

I peek into the living room, replaceing several men laid out over the couch and floor. Five of them. All snoring and surely doped up on drugs, their veins as clogged with chemicals as the dust in the air vents. Their organs are probably floating in an ocean of alcohol, too, pruning in the toxins.

An earthquake would sooner rock them further into whatever depraved la-la land they wandered into than wake them. I wonder, when pedophiles dream of marrying women their age or walking an old person across the street out of the goodness of their hearts, do they call them nightmares? Do they awake in a cold sweat and with a pit of dread in their stomachs?

Surely, they don’t consider dreams of cute puppies and rainbows pleasant.

Regardless, they’re the least of my concerns as I slink through the darkened living room, stepping over stray limbs and crushed, empty beer cans.

It’s the guard standing outside the house who has a trail of sweat leaking down my spine.

He would better serve as a boulder in the Hoover Dam with how ossified the muscles around his bones are. All those people that built it died for nothing when all that dumb fuck needed to do was just fucking stand there.

But if he sticks to the routine he’s followed for the last three months, then he should be holding his dick in the woods somewhere, taking a piss break. Typically, he combines it with a smoke break, using it as an excuse to walk around and relieve himself from standing in the same position for hours on end.

Maybe he wouldn’t fare so well in the dam.

Holding my breath, I grab the handle with a trembling, sweaty palm and crack open the door, the rusted hinges screaming.

Wincing, I peek over my shoulder, quickly ensuring the men behind me are still unconscious, then slip out the door.

Only to smack directly into a hard chest.

“Where ya goin’, mama?”

Hope, elation, freedom… they fizzle out like a damp firecracker. My bottom lip trembles as I lift my gaze.

Rio.

He wasn’t supposed to be on duty tonight.

He’s tall, and his light brown skin is covered in tattoos. His hair is buzzed close to his scalp, accentuating a strong jawline and full lips. Admittedly, he’s incredibly enigmatic, and the only man in this house who doesn’t make us recoil in fear.

He’s never been interested in any of us.

Francesca brought him in a few months ago, right after his nineteenth birthday, and not long after he arrived from Puerto Rico. She joked she didn’t feel so bad hiring a kid when he’s old enough to fuck. I don’t think that vile woman is capable of shame or guilt, nor does she pretend to be when she calls him into her bedroom at night.

Just like ours, his eyes are haunted. And unlike the other men, he doesn’t leer at the girls or smile when we’re raped. In fact, he looks downright sick when it happens.

His job is extraction—a fancy, bullshit name for a kidnapper. They provide him with a picture of a pretty young girl, her name, and her location; his only job is to lure her into his car and bring her back. Most of them are sex workers. Easy to get in a car, and very few people go looking for them once they’re missing.

However, they’ve been having issues with him letting targeted girls slip through his fingers. A mistake that would typically get him killed, but every time Rocco threatens to, Francesca stops him.

She’s attached, and it’s the only reason Rio is still alive.

I open my mouth, but the answer gets clogged in my throat. It feels too tight, like a crowded room with bystanders pressed shoulder to shoulder, preventing me from uttering a word and wrapping a noose around my neck and theirs.

“I got all night. Don’t know if you do, though,” he drawls casually, pushing for an answer.

“Out,” I squeak, the lone syllable forcing its way through the crowd.

A stupid thing to say, but what possible excuse could I conjure? Under no circumstances are we allowed out of our rooms after bedtime, let alone out of the house.

I’m fucked. Well and truly fucked.

“Out,” he repeats tonelessly.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins, and sweat gathers at the base of my spine. I have the urge to vomit all over his boots, nausea swirling in the pit of my stomach.

I try to clear my throat but only end up squeaking out a choked cough. After tossing a nervous glance over my shoulder, and then over Rio’s, I meet his penetrating gaze again.

I’m no longer confident the men behind me won’t wake up to our voices, and the guard can show up any second. The smart thing to do is offer him whatever he wants in exchange for his silence and to return to my room. Except something keeps me rooted to where I stand.

Hope.

Hope is what keeps me in place.

He let others go. Maybe he’ll let me go, too.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I-I’m dying.”

I wasn’t planning on saying the last part, but it’s the truth.

Every second spent in this place—subjected to these waking nightmares—is one less beat my heart is willing to give.

“We all are, no?” he retorts.

I flick another nervous glance over my shoulder. Surprisingly, he takes a step back, allowing me just enough room to step out of the entrance and softly close the door behind me.

A small mercy, yet it means everything to me in this instance.

The warm June air feels like a suffocating blanket at this moment.

“P-please. I’ll do anything. I won’t tell anyone about this place. About you.”

He quirks a brow.

“Is that supposed to convince me? You won’t have the option to tell anyone shit if I don’t let you go, estúpida. And keeping you here means no risk,” he hisses quietly, his accent deepening with annoyance.

“Right. That was stupid. But it is still completely the case. I just… I have a sister. She’s only a year old, and all alone…” I trail off, realizing I’m telling a sex trafficker that my little sister is super fucking kidnappable.

Stupid. Fucking. Idiot.

His other brow joins the first halfway up his forehead.

“You’re terrible at this,” he comments dryly.

“She’s not completely alone,” I amend weakly. Then, I sigh impatiently. “Okay, whatever. Telling you that doesn’t put her in any more danger than she’s already in. My parents are addicts and will have friends come over who tend to go exploring the house at night. I guess the only difference between here and there—I’ll be able to kill the sick fuck who touches her if she’s with me.”

He grins, but I’ve no idea what the fuck he could possibly replace funny.

“If you’re lucky, you’ll manage to kill one before one of them kills you. Then your sister would really be alone.”

I growl under my breath. Of course, he’s right, but my goal was to tug at his heartstrings, not bring out his logic and reasoning.

Hell, I really do suck at this.

I chew my lip mercilessly, trying to figure out a different angle. The man may be fucked up, but he’s proven to have empathy. Somewhere beyond the spiderwebs, venomous snakes, and flesh-eating parasites in his soul is a soft spot. I just have to replace it.

Worrying my lip harder, I peek over his shoulder again. I’m running out of time. It’s a miracle the others haven’t returned yet.

“Do you have a sister?” I ask.

His expression wasn’t exactly… expressive to begin with, yet it seems as if his face falls anyway. A dark, ominous look passes over his eyes, and his features sharpen. It sends chills down my spine and the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

I’m not sure if I found the soft spot or just struck a very sensitive nerve.

The blood in my body turns to ice. If I hadn’t been standing in front of a beast before, I certainly am now.

“Is she alive?” I push.

What’s stopping me? I’m dead, anyway.

“Yes,” he clips. “But letting you go could get her killed if they decide to retaliate against me.”

“They’ll never know you saw me,” I reason, growing desperate. “You weren’t even supposed to be on duty tonight.”

He considers that for a moment, and my anxiety amps up.

“Look, we’re both desperate to keep our sisters safe, yeah? I don’t need to be someone who gets in your way, nor do you need to be for me.”

His upper lip curls into a snarl, frustration pinching his brow.

It feels like an eternity passes before he finally speaks again.

“Get out of my face. Now. I sure as fuck hope you know what you’re doing, because I’m not helping you, nor will I save you if you’re caught.”

Relief explodes in my chest, stealing my breath away.

“Thank you. I won’t forget you, Rio.”

I don’t wait for him to respond. With one last glance, I take off down the steps and toward the only place that offers a chance of survival—the unwelcoming arms of the forest.

It will be unkind, but I’ve suffered much worse.