It was in the way he looked at her when she sang.
It was in the way he gripped her hand just now.
It was in the way he pushed her against that tree and clasped her face between his hands.
She knew who he was.
Though she hoped she was wrong.
Or maybe that was a lie, too.
NOW
I lean closer to the tablet and realize I’m watching what must be security camera footage.
The lens is directed at a parking lot, and static licks through the screen every few seconds. My stomach threatens to upend itself as vehicles come and go. What’s the last thing I ate? Peanut butter on stale bread because we’d been out of jelly for two weeks. A couple of guilt-laced oatmeal cookies Mom made late at night.
Finally, I see Molly’s car appear.
“The cuffs,” I bark, thrashing my hands against the restraints.
Detective Hernandez nods to Tehrani, and he removes them with a frown.
I immediately snatch the tablet and lift it so I can see better. My heart slams against my rib cage as Molly sits in her car for a few moments. I wonder what she’s doing. Waiting for me? Is she waiting for me? Is this the gas station we were supposed to meet at? I don’t think it is.
Finally, she steps out. Her white hair is loose around her shoulders, and she’s wearing my favorite sweater—black with an animated rainbow over her left breast.
Molly, my girlfriend, someone I haven’t seen in over a month, walks past the screen. It’s blurry, but I know it’s her. I know the way she walks. The way her hips move as she covers ground.
She vanishes inside the store, and a moment later a white van pulls up next to Molly’s car.
Saliva pools in my mouth as I fight nausea.
The driver is wearing a baseball cap. He looks at Molly’s car, and then at the doors to the convenience store.
He’s waiting for her.
This prick is waiting for my girlfriend.
Molly appears from the store carrying something. I narrow my eyes to figure out what it is. For some reason, I feel like if I don’t know what she’s carrying, then nothing that happens next will make sense. Maybe it’s something Molly would never buy. Maybe it’s something for this guy in the van.
The bag is yellow.
It’s peanut M&Ms.
When I realize this, I have to squeeze my eyes shut. I shake with anxiety, my teeth chattering inside my head. When I first met Molly, I figured she must not eat much. How else could she look so skeletal? But the truth was Molly ate more than any human being her size ever should—hot dogs, chili cheese fries, root beer floats, mozzarella sticks, buttered popcorn, pork tacos, fried chicken salads with extra ranch dressing. Anything and everything I ate, and sometimes more.
After every meal, no matter how far we had to walk to get them, she’d demand peanut M&Ms.
She opens the bag as she walks to her car. Tears the end off and, as I almost smile because I know it’s coming, sticks it into her back pocket.
The guy gets out of the van.
I grip the tablet tighter and pull it so close to my face that my eyes water trying to take in all the tiny details the grainy footage doesn’t show. I want to scream for Molly to run back inside. For her to pay attention. But she rounds the van anyway, and a second later, the guy walks after her. I hold my breath hoping this plays out differently, knowing it won’t. I stare at the screen, willing Molly to appear again. Hoping to see her kissing this guy because that’s better than the alternative.
But neither of those things happens. What does happen is Molly disappears from view, and then there is only the guy, holding the bag of M&Ms up to his mouth. And that’s where the scene freezes. Detective Hernandez reaches over and taps the screen once, twice, and then the guy’s face is right there, and it’s like staring into a fucking mirror.
This guy, he looks just like me.
This guy, he is built just like me.
This guy…he is me. And there’s no possibility left that exists that says I didn’t have something to do with Molly disappearing.
“Did you move her car afterward?” Detective Hernandez asks, and I can tell she’s upset they don’t have that footage.
“Since we’ve had a tail on you,” Detective Tehrani says, “and you haven’t once visited a place she might be, we have to assume she’s dead.”
“You what?” I say. “Dead?”
“There’s some evidence,” Detective Hernandez interjects, “that leads us to believe we’re looking for…” She hesitates. “Cobain, we’re going to provide a court-appointed attorney for you, but if you wish, you can speak to us now. You can tell us where Molly is, so we can go and find her.”
Green trees.
Blue water.
White dog.
Black crow.
Pressure.
Pressure.
Detective Hernandez lowers her voice, but that doesn’t hide the sliver of hopefulness in her voice. “Cobain, is Molly still alive? Just tell us that. Detective Tehrani and I have been led to believe she’s not, but perhaps she’s just hurt somewhere. Or maybe she’s okay, but you couldn’t face being around her. Could you just tell us—”
A girl opens the door to our room, and I run.
I don’t plan anything besides using my size to sledgehammer my way out of here.
I slam into the girl that opened the door, and she falls to the ground. I want to apologize and give her a hand up, but it’s better I don’t touch her. It’s better that I don’t touch anyone ever again. But I can touch this gun.
I grab the gun from an officer crossing my path. He’s got his hands on a perpetrator, and now I’ve got my hands on his weapon. I point it at him. Flick my hand toward the door.
“Open it,” I instruct, feeling like an imposter. My hands sweat, and my arms shake, and I’m terrified I’ll drop the gun and it’ll go off.
The officer raises his hands and says calmly, “Don’t hurt anyone, okay?”
He walks to the door and swipes a card so that it opens.
“Give me the gun back before you go,” he asks, and I’ve got to give him credit for trying.
There’s a woman inside the lobby with a red-faced kid. She’s demanding to see her boyfriend, but when she sees me, she picks up the kid and jumps back. I want to stop and assure her I’m not dangerous. But that’s not true, now is it? I thought I wasn’t a threat to anyone, especially Molly. I believed it until the very end.
But I was wrong.
I push through the glass doors and pass two officers, point my gun in their direction, and holler, “Get down now!”
Arms raised.
Stomachs touching the ground.
Not even a second of hesitation.
I imagine they have wives at home that need their husbands. Chubby-cheeked babies that can’t lose their daddies.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and start running.
I cross an intersection and hop over a fence. I don’t know where I’m going.
Sure I do.
Sure I do.
NOW
I keep running, glancing over my shoulder to ensure the police haven’t found me.
Green trees.
Blue water.
White dog.
I go to shove the gun into my jeans and feel something wedged into my pocket. My phone! I wonder if it’s still on. When was the last time I paid the bill? Two months ago? But I prepaid for a month up front.
When I reach the train tracks, I collapse and put my head between my knees. Gasp for air. Grab at my throat because this can’t be happening. All this time, I was chasing leads. Hoping it’d turn out that someone else had taken Molly, and that I could be the one to rescue her. Or that she had simply taken off on her own to start a new life with no strings.
But that was
my face I saw.
Black crow.
Pressure.
My dad yelling.
Those were my arms that threw Molly into that white van. Where did I even get that van? How did I know how to find her? I have so many questions that may never be answered because there is a hole in my memory. A hole that widened as I fell deeper and deeper in love with Molly.
I reach for my phone, and as my hand shakes, I dial my brother’s number. What if he doesn’t pick up? What will I do here alone with this gun?
My brother answers on the fourth ring, and I lose my shit. I can barely respond when he asks, for the third time, if I’m there.
“I’m here,” I finally manage.
He hesitates, hearing the wobble in my voice. “Cobain, what’s wrong?”
“I did something to Molly,” I say, hardly able to choke the words out.
Holt doesn’t respond for several seconds, then he asks, “Where are you?”
I’m afraid to tell him. What if he calls the cops? I guess it doesn’t matter. I have to trust him. Besides, they’ll find me eventually.
“I’m in town,” he says. “Are you?”
His words sucker punch me. He’s here seeing his friends and didn’t bother coming by the house. I don’t blame him, but it doesn’t stop the hurt.
“Yeah,” I say in a near whisper. “I’m at the tracks.”
“Don’t move,” he orders. “I’m coming there. Cobain, don’t do anything until I get there, okay? I’m going to help you.”
I have to grit my teeth to keep from crying and shake my head.
“Ten minutes,” he says, and I can hear the keys jingle as he jumps into his truck.
I hang up and wait.
I stare at the gun.
Just to see, I lift the barrel to my lips. Open my mouth just a touch, then rip my arm back down and shake with fear.
Green trees.
Blue water.
White dog.
Black crow.
My dad yelling.
My vision blurring.
“Cobain.”
I glance up and imagine what I must look like—red eyes, red face, shock and desperation and mania twisting my face into one he doesn’t recognize.
He’s so much smaller than me.
Alarmingly thin.
How can he possibly care for us both? I’m the stronger one. I’m the one who should be helping him. Didn’t I get bigger and bigger so I could feel half as good as my older brother?
Holt sees the gun and stops.
I lay it down beside me and cover it with my hand to show him I don’t intend to use it. At least, not yet.
He swallows what must be a substantial amount of trepidation and sits down beside me.
“What happened?” he asks.
“They showed me footage of me taking Molly,” I say.
“Are you sure—”
“I’m sure.”
He nods and takes a deep breath. Puts his hand on my back. “Fuck. Fuck.”
His hand on my back is what does it. I drop my head and fight against the tears. Think of Molly. The way she streaked my face with pickle juice and kissed it off. Her laugh that most often sounded suppressed, and the booming, earth-shattering one she reserved for when I tickled it out of her. Her nails, always chipped. Her smile, mischievous. Her heart, only half awake.
The way her head felt on my chest.
The way she felt on the inside.
The way I felt when I was with her—worthy, seen.
What is wrong with me?
What am I forgetting?
Why is this hole only appearing now?
I haven’t had holes since I was a kid.
Or have I?
Maybe there have always been holes, and I simply filled them.
Filled them with convenient lies.
Filled them with partial truths.
Filled them, because the truth was too unbearable.
Green trees.
Blue water.
A dog barking.
My mind stutters and skips.
And then I know.
I know.
Holy shit. Oh fuck, no.
All the pieces slide into place, the holes filling with new information—
Green grass.
Blue water.
A dog barking.
My father running toward me, yelling.
A gunshot.
“Holt,” I say, in a voice that isn’t my own.
He looks at me with concern for my wellbeing, and then slowly, so gut-wrenchingly slowly, his face changes into concern for himself. Maybe that’s because I’m lifting the gun from the ground and placing it on my lap.
Maybe that’s because I’m getting to my feet and keeping my gun pressed against my leg.
Holt gets to his own feet, his eyes locked on the weapon in my hand. “What are you doing?”
“You’ve never really been there for me,” I say, accusation twisting my words.
Holt’s hands come up like he’s been afraid of this moment for a long time. “What are you talking about? I’ve always been there for you.” Holt hesitates. “Brother, we’re going to figure this situation out together. I’m going to be with you—”
“You’re always running off to be with your friends,” I say, feeling the blood simmering in my veins. Not sure what I’m doing, but unable to stop the escalation. Because I’m remembering my childhood now. Remembering how Holt always resented me, and not the other way around.
“You never cared about me.” I lift the gun.
Fear lights up my brother’s face. His eyes are so big I think they might roll from his head and land in the palm of his hand like a pair of dice—snake eyes.
“Cobain, holy shit, what are you doing?”
“You were always jealous that Dad liked me best,” I say.
Holt’s face twists with confusion. “You…you always said Dad favored me. Now you’re saying it’s the other way around? Cobain, just put the gun down. Please!”
I shake my head. “I remembered everything wrong. It was too hard to remember it the way it was. It was too hard to remember the truth.” I straighten my arm, stare down the length of my weapon to the fear locking my brother’s body in place. “You never cared about me.”
“I loved you!” he roars. “No one cared about you more than me!”
My voice is a lesson in control. “No one cared about me less than you.”
I search the side of the gun until I find the safety. Click it off.
Holt looks like he might run.
I’ve never seen terror like this before.
And I’m asking myself, What am I doing, what am I doing?
But I have to be sure about him.
I take aim with purpose, hold the gun with both hands, and ask him one question.
“When is your birthday?”
Holt’s face contorts with confusion. “What? Cobain, put the gun down. What the fuck, man? You’re my brother!”
“When is your birthday?”
“Cobain, stop. Please, for fuck’s sake, I’m your family! I’m the one who—”
“WHEN IS YOUR GODDAMNED BIRTHDAY, BIG BROTHER?”
He holds his hands out in front of him, shaking from head to toe. In the distance, I think I hear a train. Is that a train or is the sound in my head?
Slowly, Holt begins to lower his arms. And even slower, a smile parts his face. He laughs, once, and it echoes the crazy I feel inside.
“You got me,” he says at last. “I can’t remember my fucking birthday.”
I shoot him.
Blood sprays across my face, but that can’t be right.
That shouldn’t be what’s happening right now!
He stumbles back
two sharp steps and then falls, and then I know for certain that a train is coming, and I’m going to throw myself beneath those rusted wheels.
I rush to his side, dropping the gun, dropping to my knees. I take his head in my hands and hold it in my lap as he sputters. When he smiles, his teeth are laced with blood.
“Holt!” I shout. “Oh my God, Holt. Please, God. You’re going to be okay. I fucked up. I thought I knew, but… Oh God, oh fuck!” I release him and reach for my phone, my fingers fumbling to call for help.
But he reaches up to stop me.
“Cobain,” he says with a wheeze that cuts through every vital organ in my body. “Cobain, say it.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Oh fuck! Holt. You’re bleeding so much.”
I press down on his chest, and he covers my hand with his.
“Say it,” he repeats.
And I know I need to because he doesn’t have much time left. Already, the color has drained from his face, and his too-thin body somehow appears even more emaciated.
Holt fights to take a breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and grips my hands with sudden intensity.
“Say it!” he demands, and blood splatters my face.
The train is coming closer, but there’s no whistle this time. Just the thunk-thunk of the beast barreling toward us.
I put my hand to his cheek and bite down against the tears filling my eyes.
“You never really cared about me…” I begin.
Holt nods and coughs.
“You never really cared about me,” I say. “Because you were never here.”
Holt smiles.
“You’ve never been here,” I continue.
Holt’s eyes bore into mine. Eyes I’ve seen every day since I was born. But those eyes changed when I turned seven, didn’t they? They used to be brown. And now they’re blue.
I made them blue because that seemed a nicer color.
“You went away when I was seven,” I say, and now the tears are pouring down my face. Because I remember him—my big brother, the way he was before.
Holt pulls in a deep breath and releases it as if by me saying this, he is finally free.
We Told Six Lies Page 22
