Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
“Yeah, I put it in a box with other stuff for you.”
“Thank you, Francesca. Sincerely. I can’t thank you enough for what you’re doing. I know Lynn’s family is incredibly grateful too. Lisa’s still having a really tough time. I can’t fathom how long it would have taken her to gather the emotional strength to go through their belongings. I think she’ll go to her grave asking ‘why?’ But I don’t think we’ll ever know why.”
The “why” is a “who.” And the “who” is Molly Sanford. And knowing that doesn’t change a thing. Eloise knows it. And I know it, but I can’t let it go.
“I’ll call you when I’m ready to head home.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you too.” I end the call.
And then … I take a little drive.
The Sanfords live halfway between Boone and Rhodale. Their property is impossible to miss because it’s so out of place. A sprawling ranch—a mansion—surrounded by wheat fields transitioning from green to gold.
Armed with a small box of miscellaneous items I found in Steven’s closet, which I assume belong to Molly, I park my car and swallow past the lump in my throat while ringing the doorbell. I need to look her in the eye and hopefully find eternal sadness and regret. Every day, I hope she thinks of Steven for the rest of her life. I hope she feels responsible for his death. Anything less is unacceptable.
A figure appears on one side of the glass-paneled, grand entry double door. A dark-haired woman with leathery skin and a kind smile. “Hello.”
“Hi. I’m looking for Molly.”
“Well, I’m Mrs. Sanford’s assistant, Katheryn. Please come in.” She steps aside. “Can I tell Molly who’s here?”
“Uh …” I draw in a slow breath. “I’m Steven Holter’s aunt.”
Katheryn’s smile slides straight off her face. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. I’ve been going through their belongings and found this box of things I assume belong to Molly.”
“I can give it to her.” She reaches for the box.
I turn slightly and offer a stiff smile. “Actually, I’d like to meet her. Steven talked a lot about her. And I didn’t get the chance to have a formal introduction at the funeral. So if it’s not too much trouble …”
“Of course not. She’s out back by the pool. Follow me.”
“Thank you.”
A girl with long blond hair in what barely qualifies as a bikini or clothing at all lifts onto her elbows from a padded lounge chair. She slides her sunglasses to the tip of her pierced-septum nose.
Katheryn doesn’t stick around to introduce me. By the time I check over my shoulder, she’s gone.
“Molly?”
“You are?”
I internally bristle at her rude excuse of a greeting. Did she not see me at the funeral or the burial? “Francesca. I’m Steven’s aunt.”
Her pouty lips gape while she reaches for a sheer coverup and swings her legs over the side of the lounger.
My nose wrinkles when I catch a whiff of her sunblock, a mix of harsh chemicals and an overbearing coconut scent. “I’ve been going through the family’s belongings and came across this box of things in Steven’s closet.” For a brief moment, I stare into the box at the pink-handled hairbrush, gold hoop earrings, a small women’s tee, a bottle of perfume, lip gloss, and a slew of hair bands. “I figured they must be yours.” I return my gaze to hers.
She doesn’t move other than fiddling with the silver ring on her middle finger.
“It’s odd. They were already in this box like he was planning on returning them to you, or he was making it easier on whoever had to deal with his belongings after …” I frown, letting her fill in the blank.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she whispers.
My loss? Yes. Steven was my family. But I remember what it was like to be a teenager where everything was magnified. Every situation felt life-changing, and every emotion seemed to make a mark on my fragile heart.
Molly is numb. Her words carry no sincerity.
“He talked highly of you.” I hand her the box and help myself to the lounger beside her. “I can’t even imagine how someone your age deals with this kind of loss. I hope you’ve found counseling or someone to help you through this.” I smile just short of sarcastic.
“Yeah,” she whispers while inspecting the contents of the box. Anything to keep from looking at me. “They brought in extra counselors at school after he died.”
“Did his death surprise you?”
She glances up at me, eyes narrowed. “W-what do you mean?”
“I mean, did you know he was suicidal?”
“Of course not!” Her fingers grip the side of the lounger, knuckles white.
“Hey,” I hold up my hands. “I’m just asking. I’m trying to figure out what happened.”
In an instant, her expression hardens. “He was upset about his injury. Football was his life. He loved it.”