Page 36 of Dolly

A younger version of the woman I know now appears on screen. She’s sitting on a bed in a motel room similar to the one we’re in. Her hair is shorter, curls framing her innocent face. Her legs are tucked up to her chest, and she hugs them to her while watching whoever fiddles with the camera.

She couldn’t be more than fifteen in the video, maybe younger. My estimates on age aren’t always accurate.

“Now, Gabby. I asked you to get dressed, didn’t I?” a male voice chastises. He walks on screen, a looped belt in one hand. I can’t see his face, only his damn trousers. The bottom of a concert poster can be seen on the wall. This is her bedroom. He did this in her house. Where the fuck was her mother?

I blink and shake my head as she lowers her legs from the bed.

“Daddy, I don’t want to do this,” she says. It’s soft, and the plea heavy, but I hear her clearly.

“Gabby, now. Or you’ll have to pay a consequence.” He taps the belt against his leg, and her attention snaps to it. Her complexion pales, but she gets moving. My breath stills in my throat as I watch everything unfold. She undresses for him, and he praises her, touches her. She winces and cries, but he doesn’t care. Scars litter her chest and stomach, fresher than the pale white marks I kissed only last night.

Finally, air comes back into my lungs as rage pushes my heart into a gallop. He’s hurting her, touching her, making her touch him.

I slam the computer shut, unable to take in another second of her torment.

It didn’t start in the playroom.

Tears burn my eyes.

So many people have hurt her.

When I look up again, Dolly’s staring at me, her lips pressed into a thin line and forehead wrinkled with worry. Her gaze flickers to the closed laptop on the desk.

“Dolly, come here.” I put my hand out to her.

She pushes the covers out of the way and slides off the bed. With measured steps, she walks toward me, her head down and fingers wiggling at her sides, like a little girl about to confess to a sin.

But it’s not her sin.

“Dolly, tell me how you came to be in the house. How did you end up there?”

She stiffens and bites down on her lip.

“I don’t really remember—”

“Dolly.” I let my voice go hard. I hate it, but she responds to it. “No lying.”

“I’m sorry.” She sucks in air through her teeth. “I was supposed to meet my parents for dinner.”

“For your birthday,” I offer when she stops.

“Yes. My birthday.”

“And?” She’s trembling, but I won’t touch her yet. Once she gets through letting it all out, I’ll wrap my arms around her and cradle her until the hurt fades.

“My father…my dad…he, uh…” She dashes away a tear from her cheek. “I wasn’t a good daughter. I caused trouble, and he needed money.”

A fire ignites in my veins. “What did you do that makes you think you weren’t a good daughter?” I force my tone to remain flat. I’m not angry with her, but she might not understand that.

“I didn’t listen to him sometimes. He had to make me listen, and he hated having to do that. It made my mom sad. And then, when I got old enough to go to college, he said I could go, he said he could pay for it, but something must have happened because he needed money so bad…” Her words fly out too fast for me to catch every one of them. She twists her fingers together as she rattles on. “And it was my fault because I didn’t listen. I’m old enough to live on my own. He caught me looking for an apartment. It made him really mad.”

I wrap my hand over hers to stop her from hurting herself.

“Your parents didn’t want you to move out?” I ask, urging her to continue.

“No. Daddy said I couldn’t move out yet. But I didn’t listen.”

“Wait a second.” I think back to her file, to everything I poured over the day I had my hands on it. I don’t remember where it said she lived, but why would her parents be meeting her for dinner if they lived in the same house?

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