Finding Serenity (3 page)

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, 8
th
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 turned 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.”