Finding Serenity Page 2

  That day, Mollie thought she felt something electric snaking between them. It was a connection she was sure she wasn’t inventing; something she wanted to explore further. He’d never been to a rugby match and being a good Cavanagh girl, Mollie invited him to the match before regionals. She’d admit that her motives were ulterior. She couldn’t have cared less about the match, but wanted to see him again, hoped it would lead to him asking her out. He’d loved the game, seemed to enjoy her company, even exchanged numbers, but when she subtly mentioned them catching a coffee the next weekend, Vaughn begged off, saying he’d be out of town for at least two months. After that, she’d done something she’d never admit to Layla or any of her other friends. She found him on Facebook and took to pathetically stalking his account; not friending him, not pursuing, but still keeping tabs on him and that made her feel like an immature idiot.

  Just a few days ago, during her morning check of his account, Mollie saw that he had returned to Maryville. A quick “So good to be home” update on his status, and she let slip to Layla that he was back. That had been mistake One. Her best friend meant well, but she was relentless and bossy, and the twin insistences of Layla’s encouragement and her own impatience that Vaughn had not called her, found Mollie jumping in her car with his hoodie on the passenger seat.

  When she surprised him at his business, walking into the Crossfit studio like she was the one who owned the place, hoodie swinging from her hands, his expression told her she should have listened to her instinct. She saw the obvious shock on his face when she walked toward him, heard the low inflection of his voice, and how the resonance of each syllable lowered with each step she took.

  Just the memory has her face warming in embarrassment.

  Mollie slams her car door shut and has to pinch the phone between her shoulder and chin as she tugs her bag up her arm. “He kept saying shit like ‘you’re so sweet’ and I’m pretty sure he called me ‘little girl’ under his breath.”

  “That’s not good,” Layla says, her voice humming through the receiver.

  “I told you I shouldn’t have gone.”

  “Well, he hadn’t called. You needed to find out where his head was.”

  Mollie laughs. “His head was on his clients. All those cut, hot girls working out around us as Vaughn refused to make eye contact with me.”

  “He’s an idiot if he’s not into you, Mollie.”

  She feels her chest tighten with a swell of gratitude. Layla has been her best friend for nine years. Of course she’s biased, but Mollie never tires of hearing Layla’s support. “Thanks, I couldn’t agree more.”

  Layla starts in again, more theories on why Vaughn had acted cool, uninterested when Mollie drove to Maryville to return his hoodie. She had hung onto the sweatshirt for months and, pitifully, had even refrained from washing it until his heavy masculine smell began to fade. Visiting him today went against her better judgment, but Layla is convincing. Sweet, loyal and loud, but so convincing.

  “Umhmm,” Mollie says to yet another of Layla’s theories, but she isn’t listening to what her best friend is talking about. She’s too focused on getting into her apartment, in taking in the cool summer breeze that whips around her bare arms.

  When her mother dragged her from her father’s home in Mississippi to this sleepy little town, Mollie had hated everything about Cavanagh, from the obsessive discussions about rugby to the Irish traditions that were so ingrained into this community. But then, 8th grade started up and Mollie got her period a few days in, just before lunch. The strange and nosy girl from her Social Studies class, Layla Mullens, caught her crying in the girl’s bathroom, hiding in a stall. Layla told Mollie things she’d never known, since her mother never bothered to explain the changes that would happen to her body and the only mildly uncomfortable chat she’d ever had with her father concerned boys and why she should never let them touch her boobs. But Layla was her intrusive rescuer that day and told her all about Midol and tampons and how she was now a woman. She introduced Mollie to Sayo and Autumn, and the crushing loneliness she felt in her mother’s home was replaced by appreciation for her new friends, and the town that slowly began to grow on her. She softened, began to understand the appeal of Cavanagh, to enjoy the quiet calm of the people, of the beautiful mountains that wrapped around the city limits.

  Mollie looks up, past the trees and street lamps to stare out into the distant peaks and ridges of the mountains and she releases a smile, feeling calmer now, despite Layla’s constant blabbing. Cavanagh is home. It’s where her friends are, where her university is, and though her father is nowhere near her, it’s become a reminder of family.

  “Are you listening to me?” Layla screeches.

  “What? Of course.”

  “Oh my God, you so are not.” Layla’s breath vibrates against the speaker. “I said, you should cool off for a while. Don’t call him—”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “Don’t go see him,” her best friend continues as though Mollie hadn’t uttered a sound. “Make him come to you.”

  When Mrs. Varela, Mollie’s elderly neighbor, struggles up the steps with her groceries, Mollie is right behind her. “Let me help you,” she says to the old woman and opens the door to their building.

  “Such a sweet girl, Mollie Malone,” the old woman says.

  “Who is that?” Layla’s voice is so loud, Mollie winces against the sound.

  “Let me call you back. Five minutes,” she tells her best friend then slips the phone in her back pocket.

  The bags in Mrs. Varela’s veiny hands swing precariously close to the tips of her fingers. She barely maintains her hold and Mollie grabs the heaviest and fullest of the bags before they fall onto the stone steps. The old woman’s smile is wide, her false teeth a bit weathered and yellowed by too much coffee, likely the occasional cigarette. Mollie nods the woman through the entrance, leans against the glass door to let Mrs. Varela slip into the foyer.

  “I can manage from here, mija,” but Mollie ignores her, jerks her chin and grins to let the woman know she’ll see her and the bags safely into her apartment.

  Mrs. Varela’s apartment is cluttered. There are stacks of unwashed dishes on the counters and laundry set into large, unfolded piles around her sofa. At the old woman’s waiting smile, a clear dismissal, Mollie again nods, but can’t seem to help herself from offering assistance. “Mrs. Varela, give me a little bit and I’ll come and help you put these away.”

  “No, nina, I can manage.” The old woman’s eyes shift, and a quick brush of color creeps across her cheeks.

  “It’s no trouble at all. Just let me go put my things away and I’ll be right back.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, you don’t have to—”

  “I want to. Besides, you have to tell me what I missed on Maria de los Barrios today. I have to know if Maria finds her son.” Mollie hurries out of the woman’s apartment before she can refuse her again. “I won’t be ten minutes.”

  The large, oak door thumps against the frame as Mollie closes it and moves toward her apartment, just three doors down. She retrieves her phone and pushes on the icon with Layla’s name, hearing her best friend pick up after the second ring.

  “Sorry about that. I had to help Mrs. Varela with her bags” she says into her phone.

  “You shooting for Sainthood or something?”

  “Shut up. You’d do the same.”

  Her best friend laughs. “I absolutely would not. I am lazy as hell.”

  Mollie agrees, remembering how often Layla’s mother has lectured her best friend about her lack of housekeeping skills.

  “Hey, what are you doing later? I’m in the mood for Chinese and I don’t…” She stops just outside of her door breathing into her phone. “Hmm.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  The splinter of light beneath her doorway is faint. It turns her Welcome mat a tinged yellow and Mollie instantly recognizes it as the low watt bulb in her tiny foyer. “That’s weird. I thought I t
urned everything off when I left.” Mollie takes a step and her confusion deepens as she notices that her door is open.

  “What is it?”

  She doesn’t answer her friend, feeling the cold prickle of warning inch up her neck. “My front door… it’s open.”

  “Huh? Wait. What’s going on?” Layla’s voice breaks Mollie from her steady creep forward.

  “Shh, hold on.”

  “Don’t you dare go in there. I’m serious, Mollie. Do not go in there if the door is open.”

  “It’s probably just the guy replacing the storm windows; you know that my Super never lets me know ahead of time when someone is going to working in my apartment. I’m sure it’s nothing…” There is no real clamor of noise as she listens at her door, no clear sign that tells her an intruder is still nosing through her home. But when her foot brushes against the door and the hinges whine, Mollie’s back stiffens, her grip on her phone clamps tight at the soft shuffle of feet, the slight moan of the floorboards. Her heart instantly races. “Someone’s in there,” she whispers.

  “Mollie! For the love of God, go call the cops.” Mollie’s not sure why Layla is whispering. It’s not like she can be heard by whoever is in the apartment.

  “Calm down, will you?” She drops her bag to the floor digging in her jeans for the pocketknife she is never without. “If there’s an asshole in my apartment, I’m gonna find out who he is before the cops show up.”

  “I’m calling Walter.”

  “Don’t you freakin’ dare, Layla. I don’t need your Rent-A-Cop boyfriend coming here and passing judgment on me yet again.”

  “Mollie, please. He can help.”

  She remembers Walter’s brand of help, which usually involves telling whoever he’s helping why they’re idiots.

  “I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself.” Mollie flicks open the knife’s blade and winces at the echo it makes in the quiet foyer. She hears the squeak of tennis shoes and furniture moving. Whoever they are, they are unconcerned about being discovered. And noisy as hell. She manages to take three full steps, ignoring Layla’s low whispered demands to retreat, before she sees two intruders darting across her living room. “Hey!” In the arms of one there are boxes of CDs, a few stray wires. But before Mollie can stop the guy from leaving her apartment, his accomplice turns toward her. “What the hell are you doing in my place?” she yells, then drops her phone as the bastard runs straight for her. “You son of a bitch!” She lunges, nicks his arm before she spots an iron pipe swinging right toward her face. There is quick crack against her head and then, everything goes black.

  “Mollie!” Layla screams from the downed phone. “Mollie, what happened?”

  She is in a tunnel, her body squeezed and her head throbbing. Her equilibrium is skewed. She feels as if she is floating, like there is a cloud absorbing her awareness and making her vision blur. Around her are voices, some familiar, some a cadence that sounds distant, unusual.

  “Ma’am?” one voice says, but the pitch is muffled as though the words are being spoken from yards away. “Miss Malone, can you hear me?”

  “Mollie, wake the hell up.” That voice she knows. No one can do jarring and bossy like Layla.

  “Miss, please. Let us handle this.”

  There are fragments of light and small, black dots scampering around her eyes when Mollie blinks. All is a hazy, unfocused vapor, the figures around her are large and small shadows and then, a man with a thick, black beard leans down inches from her face. His breath is a mix of coffee and spearmint gum.

  “Can you hear me?” The boom of this man’s deep voice has Mollie leaning away.

  “Yeah,” she manages. Her own voice sounds rough, a rasp caught in her throat as though it is not accustomed to use. She blinks several more times and her vision focuses, becomes sharp once more. She takes in the scene, the cops lingering by the door, talking to a frightened, worried-looking Mrs. Varela. Mollie gives the old woman a nervous wave, a quick smile that she hopes puts her at ease. The EMT helps her to her feet and Mollie spots Layla standing with her arms tight around her stomach, then to Autumn and her boyfriend Declan who are giving Mollie anxious frowns. “I’m fine,” she says to her friends, trying to alleviate their concern. Her head feels as swollen as an overinflated balloon and her face throbs like a heartbeat.

  She barely notices when the EMT takes her pulse, flashes a small light in her eyes, when his cold, gloved fingers press against her neck. Finally, his examination done, the bearded man with the coffee breath smiles at her and pulls the blood pressure cuff from her left arm. “You’ll need to ice that cheek and check in with your doctor if you experience any dizziness, but otherwise, you should be okay.”

  “We’ll make sure she does,” Autumn says, standing next to Mollie to grab her hand. All of her friends are worriers. Autumn is a master at it. When the EMTs have made for the door, Autumn draws Mollie’s attention to her. “Are you sure you’re alright? You got hit pretty hard.” The redhead’s chin jerks once, motioning toward Mollie’s cheek which is presently beating like a bass drum.

  Mollie instantly jerks her hand away from the tender lump she feels on her cheekbone. “Damn. Got me good, didn’t he?”

  “Don’t worry about that, love. We’ll find that arsehole,” Declan says. If Mollie didn’t know the Irishman personally, she’d be intimated by the sharp scowl that covers his face. Since he and Autumn began dating, actually just before that, Declan has made it his business to watch over each of them. He’s become a friend, an unofficial bodyguard regardless of Mollie and her friends’ protest that they can take care of themselves. Also, Declan’s has the finest collection of comics Mollie has ever seen. Couple that with how he looks running around the pitch shirtless and you have near perfection. Too bad he’s spoken for, Mollie thinks, smiling at what a lucky little bitch her friend is. Besides, Autumn and Declan are crazy for each other. Mollie finds it highly disgusting how they carry on.

  “Thanks, Deco,” she says to the Irishman, hoping her relief is not too obvious in her voice. “I appreciate the offer.”

  “That’s something you should leave to us,” Mollie hears behind her. She turns to see a cop nod at her and she can’t help it, her back instantly goes up. “Miss, we need your statement.”

  “Can’t you give her a minute, mate? She’s had a rough night,” Declan says, straightening his shoulders.

  Mollie walks away from the cop, doesn’t look him in the eyes and lets Layla fuss over her. “You should talk to them.”

  “I will.” A quick glance over her shoulder to reassure the officer. “I just need to figure out what kind of truck ran me over.”

  “Is anything missing?” The cop is young, a little pudgy around the middle, but his face is kind and if she could let the instinct of warning leave her mind, Mollie might be able to lose the bit of caution she feels seeing all the officers in her apartment.

  The thieves left her place in a mess. Her worn, green sofa is missing its cushions and the second hand steamer trunk she uses as a coffee table is open and on its side. She is thinking about the books scattered over the wood floors and how her own comic book collection has been haphazardly strewn from her now broken bookshelf, when her thoughts immediately focus on her missing DJ equipment.

  The alcove near her window is completely vacant. Stray wires from her DJ rack lay on the floor like a twisted coiled mess and speakers that this morning were stacked and neat, are all missing. There are no cases of records or rows of CDs neatly arranged on the alcove shelves.

  “It’s all gone.” Mollie nods to the empty space that once held her equipment, trying to suppress the cringe on her face. She didn’t want her friends to see her so upset. “All of it. My records, my CDs, my speakers, media players, mixers, light board. Damn it. It’s all gone.”

  “So some stereo equipment is missing, anything else, Miss?” the young cop asks her.

  Mollie wants to cry. She wants the quick burn in her stomach to settle so she doesn’t feel so near
to vomiting. Stereo equipment? This guy had no clue. “It’s not just stereo equipment.” She faces the cop, frowning. “I’m a DJ. It was my livelihood. There is about fifteen grand in equipment missing. It took me years and years to get this stuff together.” She picks up a cord from the floor, trying to suppress the sinking feeling in her chest. A few cords and lonely plugs is all that is left of the years she saved and bartered to build up her equipment. There was a first pressing Bessie Smith’s “Downhearted Blues” that took her two years to track down. Gone. The light board she sweet talked a retired Rolling Stones sound engineer into selling to her three years ago, yeah, that’s gone too. She wants to cry. She wants to punch something. Instead, she lowers her shoulders and levels a stare at the curious cop. He’s got a small note pad in his hand and is giving Mollie an expression that tells her he doesn’t understand what she’s getting so worked up about.

  “They took everything.” She starts to tear up, unable to suppress the quick shake in her hands. Layla is at her side, touching her elbow. “Did y’all catch them?” she asks the cop.

  “Them?” The pudgy cop moves forward, clearly surprised to discover this robbery wasn’t a one-man job.

  “Yeah. Two of them. One lifted my stuff, the other one came at me with some kind of pipe. If it had been one guy maybe I could have taken him, but I was caught off guard.”

  The cop’s pen moves in furious scribbles across the page of his small notebook and Mollie rebuffs Autumn’s immediate gestures toward her injured cheek.

  “We didn’t know about the second guy, but we dusted for fingerprints, got a few good ones. Did you get a good look at either of them?”