But the truth was, as she grew up, Molly understood why her mother might’ve done it. Life on the farm wasn’t Norman Rockwell idyllic. Neither was living in small-town Nebraska, where everyone knew everyone, their dirty laundry, family secrets, and shame. Where your relatives judged you, shunned you, hated you, and made your life hell.
Growing up, her cousins Jennifer and Brandi had been the bane of her existence. Being the quiet, shy type, she’d suffered their insults and attacks in silence. The one time she’d complained about their excessive meanness, her grandmother had snapped that they were her family—the only family she’d ever have—and she’d better be grateful that she wasn’t living in foster care. Then she’d told Molly to find a way to deal with it. So she had. She’d become invisible.
In high school her outstanding grades had earned her a full-ride scholarship to University of Nebraska at Lincoln. She’d chosen business accounting—a smart, safe, employable major.
Following college graduation, Molly had returned home for a temporary visit while waiting to see where she’d been accepted to grad school. It had shocked and dismayed her when she’d overheard Grams asking Uncle Bob to find a position for her in his insurance business. One, because nothing could ever make her stay in her hometown permanently. Two, because both Jennifer and Brandi worked there—if sleeping off hangovers in the conference room was considered working. The rest of her life played out before her as a nightmare.
Then the acceptance letter for the graduate program at University of Denver arrived and saved her from that life. And she hadn’t looked back.
“Molly,” Jennifer yelled. “Pull your head out and get back here.”
Lovely. She wandered back to the house.
A bicycle chain had been strung across the front door, locks on both ends.
“The back door is locked too,” Brandi informed her.
Molly walked the reverend to his car. Before her cousins could waylay her, she took off.
As she hit the edge of town, she debated on driving another thirty miles to Norfolk for a hotel room. But it’d be convenient to have a place to escape when everything overwhelmed her over the next few days.
The exterior of the Motor Inn Motel had been remodeled. She parked beneath the carport and entered the reception area. The space smelled like new paint.
A young woman slid behind the counter. “Welcome to Motor Inn.”
“I need a room for at least three nights. Possibly more.”
“Would you like a single room? Or I have a room with a kitchenette available.”
“The kitchenette would be great.” Molly handed over her credit card.
“Are you just passing through?”
“I’m here for a funeral. Then there’s all the legal stuff to deal with, which is why I won’t know how long I’ll need to stay.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.” She looked around while she waited for the paperwork. “The place looks a lot different.”
The young clerk beamed at her. “My husband and I took it over last year. Lots of sweat equity, but it’s coming along. Room by room.” She slid the paper and a pen across the counter. “Sign in the boxes and fill in your vehicle information.”
Molly scrawled her name and palmed the key fob.
After parking in front of her room, she unloaded her suitcases. The space was better than she’d expected. An apartment-scaled couch and chair were positioned in front of a flat-screen TV. The compact kitchenette had new countertops, appliances, and cabinetry. A modern bathroom and a bedroom with a king-sized bed rounded out the place.
She secured the chain on the door and breathed a sigh of relief. She desperately needed a nap after driving all night and then spending the last twenty-four hours in the hospital. Her cell phone was dead, so she plugged it in before she face-planted on the puffy bed.
Molly woke up completely disoriented. She squinted at the alarm clock. Crap. Had she really slept six hours? She needed a shower and food.
She checked her phone. The first message was from Amery. The second from Presley. The third from her friends Fee and Katie, who both worked at Black Arts. The fourth message was from Chaz. All basically the same, her friends expressing their condolences.
But calls five, six, seven, eight, and nine were from Deacon. He’d left the first message nine hours after she’d left Denver. “It’s early. Where are you? Call me.”
She moved to message six. “You always have your damn phone on you. Call me. Not kidding, babe.”
Charming. Phone manners weren’t his forte.
Call seven from last night: “I’m at your apartment. You’re not. Call me.”