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“I don’t know,” Scott said.
“Think about Ella. She’s not a toddler you can rip away from everything she knows, not this time. If you leave, you’ll be doing much more damage to her.”
Scott’s mouth tightened. “It’s not just Ella—I don’t think Molly will want me back.”
“I wouldn’t blame her,” Jeremiah said.
As he said the words, he met Liv’s eyes. She didn’t know what to make of that glance, but her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked to clear them.
“Molly panicked when she realized you were gone,” she said, hoping Scott was listening and understanding. “Jeremiah told us everything. She wants you back, Scott.”
fifty-two
When you put yourself on social media, you must accept the risks.
—Written on a sticky note
stuck to Molly Sullivan’s computer
All the stories about crazy internet stalkers zipped through Molly’s mind. This man must have become obsessed with her. Now he was in her house, holding her daughter. As if he belonged here, as if he had a right to all of it.
A flash of lightning lit the room, giving Molly a brief glimpse of the man’s sharp eyes, his lean bone structure. He was wearing a black beanie.
He shifted his weight, and Chloe stirred in his arms. Molly tensed, watching her daughter. Her head rolled back, exposing her pale throat. Something about the way she was sleeping, her deep and even breaths, seemed unnatural.
“What did you do to her?” she asked in a whisper.
He smiled. “Just a small injection of a sedative. She’ll be fine—but I needed her quiet.”
Molly’s knees shook so hard she thought her teeth would start chattering, and she clenched her jaw until it ached. “What do you want from me?”
“From you? Nothing, really, except access to your husband. We have a history together, Sam and I.”
She startled at the name. Sam. “A history?”
The man smiled again, an easy smile, like it cost him nothing to give. But his eyes told a different story: hard as slate, glittering with rage. “He shot me. I almost bled to death.”
She flashed back to Jeremiah’s story: Scott grappling with a man with a gun, the gun going off, the man running away. Was this some kind of revenge plot?
“Who are you?” she whispered.
“Someone who’s been looking for your husband for nine years.” He smirked at her. “Awfully kind of you to share your engagement picture on Instagram.”
Molly’s throat clamped shut. She had caused this; she had brought this man to her home. Once you post something online, it never really disappears. It belongs to the world, to the public.
“You’ve been looking for me since then?”
He gave a small smile and a nod.
“But why?”
“An excellent question.” The intruder uncrossed and recrossed his legs. He wasn’t completely at ease, Molly thought, if he was shifting his weight like that. “Sam took something he shouldn’t have. I’d rather not go into the details, if you don’t mind, although I guess it doesn’t matter if you know.”
“What do you want me to do?” she asked in a near-whisper.
“An even better question.” He nodded approvingly. “When will he be home?”
“I don’t know.” That was the honest truth.
