Page 75 of The Followers

“Stop,” he said, glaring at her. “Don’t make a big deal out of this. We’re leaving the day after tomorrow. I’ll keep you posted.”

Liv nearly squealed. “He’s going with you?”

“Goodbye,” Oliver said, rolling his eyes. And then he ended the call.

thirty-nine

I hate leaving loose ends. I’m known for being careful, meticulous, untraceable. But that safe deposit box is chock full of loose ends, Sam. I’m going to need to tie them up.

Soon.

But not tonight. Tonight I’m sitting in my motel room with the TV humming in the background. Mostly, I’m thinking about why I’m here, the errors I made that led me to this point. When I look back to that time in my life, before I moved on to bigger and better things, I’m not proud of all my actions. But I wasn’t at the top of my game then. Nowadays I’d never let someone get away like you did.

But you know, Kristina could have just given me the key herself, that night. She could’ve given me what I came for and I would’ve left, no problem. I’m not such a terrible person. We probably have more in common than you think. Like you, I have people who depend on me. Like you, I have hopes and dreams, plans for the future. And like you, I’d do anything to get what I want.

But here’s the difference between us: when I left Kristina’s apartment, she was still alive.

By the time you left, she was dead.

forty

Introverts have always intimidated me. All those hidden depths. Those secret corners.

@InvincibleMollySullivan

Molly and Scott sat together in the living room, each in a yellow armchair. They’d ended up here after Scott found her in the Westfalia. He sat leaning forward, elbows on knees, his face half-shadowed. The colorful room around them felt gaudy and overdone, the house darkened, the air slippery with secrets.

“I know you’ve been lying to me from the beginning,” Molly said. “And I need you to tell me the truth.”

He glanced up then, his eyes sharp. “If you already know everything—”

“I need to hear you say it.”

He exhaled, dropping his head so she couldn’t see his face. That made it easier. Easier to hold onto the righteous indignation she felt. Because looking at that face, the face of the man she adored, made everything more difficult.

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” he said. “Ask me anything.”

She had never heard him sound like this, bleak and hopeless, and it threatened to rip her wide open. Instead she stood and folded her arms tight across her chest. She started firing questions, pausing only long enough to allow his one-word answers.

“Is Ella your daughter? Your actual, biological daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Was Kristina Casillas your girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“Is your real name Sam Howard?”

“Yes.”

“Did you kidnap Ella?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“Did you kill Kristina?”

A longer pause. “Yes.”