boots. She looked totally different.
‘Thanks for calling. I really appreciate you getting in contact with us again.’
She returned the smile, but hers had a nervous edge to it. Hunter noticed that the cup of coffee on the table was empty. ‘Let me get you another one,’ he offered. ‘What’re you having?’
‘Hot chocolate.’
‘I’ll have an espresso,’ Hunter said, facing Garcia, who hesitated for a moment before shaking his head and making towards the shop.
Hunter took the seat across the table from the girl and zipped up his jacket. ‘Aren’t you a little cold sitting out here?’
She shook her head.
Hunter crossed his arms over his chest in a tight hug. ‘I’m freezing.’
She pulled a face and he cringed.
‘Wow, I just sounded like a big girl then, didn’t I?’ He chuckled. ‘That’s what you get when you live in a hot place all your life. As soon as the temperature drops under fifty-nine, we’re covering ourselves with the thickest coats we can find.’
Garcia returned with the coffees and the hot chocolate. ‘Are you sure you wanna stay out here?’ He shuddered, nodding towards the coffee shop. ‘It’s nice and warm in there.’
‘See what I mean?’ Hunter smiled.
‘Did I say something funny?’ he asked, handing the girl her drink.
‘Carlos here was born in Brazil. He moved to LA when he was just a kid. This is arctic temperature for him.’ Hunter tried to break the tension.
Garcia frowned as he took his seat. ‘What, you don’t think it’s cold?’ The question was directed at Monica.
‘Good God, don’t ever go to Pennsylvania if you think this is cold.’ As soon as those words left her lips, her face tightened and she looked away nervously.
‘It’s OK,’ Garcia said in a comforting tone. ‘If it’s any consolation, Robert already knew where you were from, from your accent.’
She threw Hunter a questioning look. ‘Really?’
‘Pennsylvania Dutch, right?’ he said matter-of-factly.
‘He’s full of those little tricks,’ Garcia noted. ‘That’s why he’s not invited to many parties.’
She smiled. The double icebreaker was working. Hunter saw her shoulders relax and she let go of the breath she’d been holding since they arrived.
‘You’re right. I’m from Pennsylvania.’ She looked from Hunter to Garcia and paused for a moment. Without being asked to, she decided to start at the beginning.
Sixty-Five
Mollie Woods was born on Christmas Day in Huntingdon County, Pennsylvania. Though she was born a healthy baby, her lengthy and complicated labor had put too much strain on her mother’s womb, and Mollie was to be her first and only child.
Mollie’s birth brought changes to her deeply religious family. Her father, John, found it hard to come to terms with the fact that he would never have the son he always wanted. In his eyes, God had punished him and his wife with a daughter. And that punishment had to be passed on.
As soon as she was able to speak, Mollie was taught to pray. And pray she did. Three times a day, naked in the corner, kneeling on dried corn kernels.
As time went by, John Woods’s bitterness grew. He used his faith as a hiding place for his anger and little Mollie was always at the receiving end of it all. During her childhood, her skin was mostly black and blue.
When it came to looks, Mollie took after her mother, with a delicate heart-shaped face, plush pink lips, big hypnotic brown eyes and long, wavy brown hair. At thirteen, she was taller than most girls her age and her womanly body was developing fast.
John Woods saw Mollie’s beauty as a new test from God. She was already attracting the attention of older boys, and John knew it was only a matter of time before she gave in to temptation and sin. He had to teach her right from wrong.
The teachings started just after her thirteenth birthday. Twice a week her mother worked the night shift at a twenty-four-hour supermarket in the city center. Mollie dreaded those nights. In the darkness of her room, she’d curl up in bed and pray, but no God would listen. Time and time again she had to endure her father hammering his body against hers, showing her what boys wanted to do to her.
The nightmares began around the same time her father started invading her room. And with them came the nosebleeds. At first Mollie could make no sense of the violent images she saw, but they felt real. Falling asleep was so frightening she’d do anything to stay awake. But soon her troubling visions expanded. They weren’t confined to her nightmares anymore. She started having them in broad daylight – kids being beaten and abused by their parents, wives by their husbands – the images just kept on coming, until the day one petrified her soul.
She had a vision of her mother being run over by a drunk driver. That night, in vain, she begged her mother not to go to work. Her father had slapped her across the face and sent her to her room. He’d had enough of her crazy dreams. He smiled the secret smile and told her that once her mother had gone to work, he would go to her room and pray with her.
The knock on the door from the police came an hour after Mollie’s mother had left. She’d been involved in a hit-and-run accident and died instantly.
That was the night Mollie ran away. The night something snapped inside her father’s head.
Sixty-Six
Both detectives listened to Mollie’s story in silence, but she didn’t tell them everything. She was careful not to mention her real name, anything about the beatings she received or any of the abuse and humiliation she was subjected to at the hands of her father. She was ashamed.
Hunter had been right. Having run away at the age of fourteen, Mollie had to mature faster than most.
She told them how the nightmares and visions had stopped once she’d left Pennsylvania, and how she thought she’d finally got rid of them. But a few days ago, inside Los Angeles Union Station, the visions came back.
‘What exactly did you see?’ Hunter kept his voice low and even.
She tensed and cupped her hands around her hot chocolate mug. ‘Unfortunately, I can’t control anything about these visions. The images are hazy and not always clear. Most of the time I see them as if I was watching a movie on a screen.’
‘Like a spectator?’ Hunter suggested.
‘Yes.’ A quick nod. ‘But that day inside Union Station was different.’
‘Different how?’
She breathed deeply and her gaze lowered. ‘I was part of it. I was the one attacking him.’ Her voice weakened.
‘You saw it in the first person?’ Garcia asked.
A subtle nod. ‘I was the killer.’
Garcia looked uneasy for a second.
‘Wait,’ Hunter interrupted. ‘Attacking him – who?’
Another deep breath. ‘A priest.’
Hunter kept a steady face, knowing that sudden emotional reactions, even facial expressions, could make this even harder for her.
