Pretty Stolen Dolls (10 page)

Tearing my gaze from the picture, I return my attention to the woman. “Did Alena have any boyfriends? Was she ever disobedient? Did you have a falling out?”

Mrs. Stevens shakes her head and clasps her long fingers together in her lap. “No, she was a bit awkward for her age. Never had any interest in boys as far as I could tell. She always did as she was told. A good girl, my daughter.”

This confirms my suspicions.

Macy and I were good girls too.

“Do you have any idea who could have taken her?” I question.

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. You think someone has taken my baby?”

Benny.

“We don’t know that yet, but we need to look at all possibilities.”

It was Benny.

I’m dying to say as much, but bite my tongue. Instead, I pull out a copy of the sketched image I shoved into my pocket from my desk before I left the station earlier. A sketch from when I woke up from that coma all those years ago and explained in detail what Benny looked like. The sketch artist did an eerily good job on making Benny come back to life. I’d wanted to rip the picture from her grasp and tear it into a thousand pieces, it looked that much like him.

When I finally got on the force, I took a copy of the picture from the database. I keep it in my desk drawer as a reminder—he’s still out there…I just have to find him.

“Mrs. Stevens,” I start as I loosen the grip on the neatly folded image in my hand, and thrust it her way, “does this man look familiar to you?”

Taking it from me, she carefully opens it and her eyes narrow as she inspects it. For a moment, I want to say recognition flickers in her eyes, but after a long minute, she shakes her head and hands it back.

“I don’t know this man.”

I make the mistake of glancing down at the image and his soulless dark eyes glare at me in warning
. I’m coming for you, pretty little doll.
A shudder passes through me and I swallow down my terror. “Can you tell me about the last time you saw your daughter?”

“We argued,” she chokes, losing her composure. I hand her a tissue and urge her on.

She shakes her head and shrugs. “It was nothing really, just about her taking money from my purse without asking.”

Sniffling, she swipes the tissue across her nose, catches a fallen drip, and smiles over at me, embarrassed.

“She just started her period. Didn’t tell me about it though and took money to buy tampons. I’m an understanding momma. I know what it’s like. If she just told me in the first place…” she sobs, sucking in a gulp of air. “I’m a woman and girls need their mommas for these things. I would have taken her to get them.” She stares at me with red, teary eyes, waiting for…what? Understanding?

I could offer none.

My cell is freezing at night and I’m regretting butchering Benny’s doll. My meltdown achieved nothing except leaving me half-naked and embarrassed.

And cold.

So cold.

I hate being exposed in only my bra and panties. Spiders keep skittering across the dusty floor and finding their way to my legs to bite me, leaving my skin hypersensitive and itchy.

I want to call out to Macy, but he doesn’t let us talk when he’s here. When he goes off for a day or two, we talk. Though, she doesn’t say much anymore and I have to coax conversation from her. I’m not sure how long we’ve been here exactly. Weeks? Months? It’s hard to tell.

My stomach cramps and I rub my hand over the chilled flesh to ease it. It’s been doing that a lot over the past few days. What if I’m dying? Flicking my gaze to the makeshift toilet in the corner of my cell, I cringe. I hate using that filthy thing and it hurts my legs to hover over it.

I lift from the bed and start to walk over to the toilet when a dampness coats between my legs. My hand drops to touch the wetness and my eyes grow wide when it comes back smeared in blood.

Looking down, I find my white panties soaked in a cerise patch.

I’m bleeding.

My chest quakes and a silent sob aches my ribcage.

“What is that?”

A gasp escapes my lips at his voice. I thought he would be sleeping on the cot he has beside his work table just outside our cells, but he’s not. He’s peering in at me, staring at the blood staining my panties and inner thighs.

“My period,” I mutter, afraid and humiliated. The door lock clanks and then swings open. Highlighted by a lamplight glowing by his cot, his muscles tense and sweat sticks to his skin like a fine mist. He’s beautiful and it’s haunting.

I hate him.

As he takes a step toward me, I take a step back, and his eyes narrow at my retreating movements.

My hands attempt to hide my panty-covered private parts, trying to conceal my shame from him.

He already takes enough from me; my dignity is still mine.

With a grumble, he swipes at me, effortlessly knocking my hands away. His frame crowds my smaller one and then his hands brush over my hips, making my body tremble and erupt in goosebumps.

Don’t touch me
,
don’t touch me
,
don’t touch me
, I scream over and over in my head, but terror keeps me mute.

Tucking his thumbs into the waist of my panties, he drags them down my legs. “Step out,” he commands, and I swallow the lump forming in my throat.

He’s on one knee in front of me, his breath, hot and intrusive, on my lower stomach.

“You stink,” he announces.

Shame and horror threatens to consume me.

“Dirty little doll.” His fingers stroke at the blood painting the skin of my thigh. When he slips the fingers into his mouth to taste the blood and then pulls them out with a vulgar pop, I gag.

“You’re a woman now,” he announces. Before I can speak, he stands and marches from my cell, taking my spoiled underwear with him.

When he gets outside the door, he stops and glares back at me. “Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

My legs twitch, instinct telling me to run. A war rages between my head and the adrenaline building in my bloodstream.

You won’t make it.

Run.

He will catch you.

Run.

Macy.

I stumble forward slightly, but it’s unnoticeable to him as he returns to my cell with a bucket. Soapy water splashes around as he carries it over to me and drops back to his knees. He picks up a sponge and wrings it out, the scent of apple assaulting my nose. The warmth of the sponge against my humming flesh is the best thing I’ve felt since he stole me.

“I can do it myself,” I murmur, my voice hoarse and wary.

“No,” he says, a low growl escaping him. “I will clean my dirty little doll.” He dips the sponge back into the water and taps my leg with the other hand.

When I don’t move, he taps it again, harder.

Squeezing my thighs together, I refuse his voiceless command.

Smacking my skin once more, causing a sting, he attempts to get me to spread them apart. I grit my teeth and remain defiant.

“Stay dirty then,” he snaps before getting to his feet and taking the bucket with him, but I don’t want to be dirty and sticky. I reach for his arm in a bout of desperation.

“No, please.”

He looks down at my hand on his arm and I quickly yank it back.

I part my legs to show him I’ll do as I’m told and he watches me for a moment, studying me in silence. Without warning, a force of water collides against the apex of my thighs with a whoosh, making me gasp.

He cleans me quickly and efficiently, and then he’s gone and the cell door is clanking shut. I’m about to break down at the thought of being without panties when his arm dangles through the bars, blocking out the soft orange glow, a pair of pink panties hanging from his finger.

“Detective?”

I jerk my gaze from the picture and find Mrs. Stevens’ questioning eyes.

A sheen of sweat has soaked my shirt from the inside out.

“I’m sorry…”

She frowns. “Is this the man you think took my daughter? Do you know this man? Oh God, is he a serial killer?”

Backtracking, I scramble to calm her. “No, I’m just following all leads.”

Her head shakes as she points at me. “You know him. Whoever this is. You’re crying, Detective.”

My mouth parts open and I swipe away the rogue tears that gave me away. “I, uh…he’s just someone…”

“What did he do? Dear God,” she chokes out.

Frowning, I lean forward and take her hand.

“This man hurt me and my sister a very long time ago. But I have reason to believe he’s out there again. It may have nothing to do with your daughter, but I can assure you I won’t sleep until I find her. I’m personally invested in this case.”

And that’s why I shouldn’t be here. I’m risking my badge, divulging this stuff to her, losing my shit, and letting my memories steal me from the present.

Tears spill down over her cheeks and she squeezes my hand.

“Don’t let him hurt my baby girl. Oh God, please.”

“I won’t allow it, I promise,” I say, trying to comfort her, but it’s false promises. What if he already has hurt her?

“Thank you,” she chokes. “Thank you. I’m so sorry for whatever happened to you.”

Giving her a deceptive smile, I stand and nod. “Me too.”

“You gonna tell me what happened earlier today?” Dillon questions, his eyes on mine as he stirs way too much sugar into his coffee.

The man will have diabetes by the time he’s forty if he’s not careful. “It won’t make you sweeter.” I gesture to the sugar and he grins.

“You think I’m sweet enough?”

I snort. “Not what I meant.”

He nods his head and tilts it to the side “I know what you are trying to do. Not happening. Now, answer the question.”

“It was nothing.” My lie causes his brows to lift. There’s nothing getting past this guy.

“You flipping your shit is hardly nothing. I’ve been watching you for eight months and you’ve never lost it like that,” he says, his voice dropping a few octaves. “Something happened and we’re not leaving this coffee shop until you tell me what it was.”

“Watching me for eight months?” I query, humming birds vibrating in my stomach, though I don’t know why. Lowering his head, he coughs and pats his chest

“Working with you for eight months—working, not watching. You’re trying to stray from the topic at hand,” he accuses, not looking me in the eye.

My gaze falls to the napkin I’ve been shredding. “It won’t happen again,” I tell him, my voice firm.

Our eyes meet again. In the warm sunlight pouring in through the window, his are a molten chocolate brown. I’ve never noticed just how long his dark lashes are either. Dillon is handsome. I’ve seen the way the women at the station fall all over themselves to talk to him, but to be honest with myself, I’ve never paid too much attention.
Liar.

He’s always treated me like a burden and I’ve responded in kind. Now that he’s showing concern, I see him in a literal new light—and it irks me. I don’t want our dynamic to change. I can’t handle him caring and wanting to get inside my thoughts. He won’t like it in there.