Page 3 of Dolly

Tears fill my eyes. Why is this happening?

“Looks like you’re getting some company.” He shuffles to the side as two men scramble into the room, a third hanging between them. His face is swollen, blood dripping from his mouth as one of his escorts opens the cell across from me and tosses him inside. A groan escapes him, but he makes no move to get up.

“No talking, you two. Behave, Dolly,” Beardman says, tugging on his belt—his favorite thing to use on me. If we’re going to be together upstairs soon, I have to be good. I can’t give him reason to use it. And now that I have food in my stomach, I can think clearer. I can keep myself from getting into trouble.

Beardman says something to the other two, and they all laugh as they walk back to the door. The door leading out of the basement is flush with my cell. Their heavy steps rattle the wall my cot is pressed against. It’s the first warning that someone’s coming. A cot and a bucket is all I have. If I lay down flat on the floor, I can almost touch my toes to one wall and my hands to the other. The other cell isn’t as nice as mine.

Once they’re gone, I scramble to the bars. The light in my cell goes out when they close the door. A single bulb at the end of the hall flickers, illuminating my cell in a dank yellow. I blink a few times, trying to focus enough to see more than a shadow of the figure across from me. His body is contorted, but his face is turned toward me. His jaw is swelling. A thick lock of hair has fallen over his eye. Dark bruises cover his back, but it’s the blood that sends my stomach into a twisted storm of worry.

A steady stream flows from his ass. And on his right cheek, there’s a small tattoo. Even in the dark, I can make it out.

B

Whoever he is, he belongs to Bossman.

My fingers flutter over the matching ink on my right buttock.

We both belong to Bossman.

New tears build and spill.

I’m never going home.

Three

BRIAN

Raindrops roll down my back as I remove my coat. Fucking storm. Half the county is in a blackout, and I’m starting my day soaked through.

“Hey,” Cathy greets me with a thin-lipped smile. I shake out my coat and dump it in the empty chair at my desk.

“Morning. Just give me a minute, I need to change.” I start unbuttoning my shirt as I turn for the locker room.

“That can wait.” Cathy puts a hand on my arm. “Captain wants us.” She jerks her head toward the corner office.

“Yeah, okay.” I grab my phone from my coat and slip it into my back pocket. If I’m lucky, an emergency call will come in before the captain gets a chance to piss on my day.

“Brian, Cathy.” Captain Richards looks up from his computer screen. He’s been on the job too long. The creases on his forehead get deeper every year. The bags under his eyes are so heavy, they pull down into his gaunt cheeks. But he’s not going to retire anytime soon.

“Morning.” Cathy gives him a polite nod and hooks her hands on her hips, ready for whatever bullshit assignment he throws at us. No matter how small, she’s grateful to have a case. No matter what the media might run in their nightly news, a woman shoots down a superior for a nightcap, there’re consequences. First, she gets saddled with me as a partner. Second, she gets shit caseloads.

We haven’t worked anything serious in nearly a year—my own punishment for having miscalculated the age of a woman I took home after a night at the bar. Also, not realizing she was the daughter of a higher ranking official. Yeah, I was fucked—thankfully not in the literal sense, which is the only reason I’m still carrying a badge.

“A girl’s gone missing.” He tosses a file down on the desk and flips it open. Light brown hair, sweet features—wholesome.

“Okay.” I pick up the picture. Nothing out of the ordinary about her. Pretty, but that’s not exactly rare these days with filters.

“Abigail Johansen. Twenty-three. Missing for two months now.”

“Two months and she was just reported?” Cathy asks.

Captain shakes his head. “No. Her parents reported her missing right away. She was supposed to meet them for dinner and never showed. Think you can hold your questions ’til the end?”

Cathy’s shoulders roll back, but she only nods. “Yes, sir.”

He straightens to his full height, pulling his pants up at the waist. “Good. Now…” he points to the picture, “Castro and Evans worked the case until the trail went cold. The parents resolved themselves to the idea the girl’s dead. But there’s been a report Abigail was spotted.”

If he doesn’t want questions until the end of his spiel, he should hurry the fuck up and get to the point.

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