Page 32 of Dolly

She drops the bags and digs around. While she’s changing out the bloody for the clean, I lean my head into the playroom. Following her bloody footsteps, I find Beardman’s head turned toward me, his nose disjointed and jaw hanging open at an awkward angle.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

I pick up the bags for her and gesture toward the stairs. “It’s the garage. Did you find any purses or wallets or anything like that?” I ask as we hustle down to the first floor. I don’t mention it to Dolly, but the longer we stick around, the higher the chance of running into Bossman’s associates.

“Yeah, there in the bag. They kept everything from people.” She follows me into the garage.

I stash the bags in the backseat of the truck cabin, then help her up.

“That’s weird, right? To keep the clothes and stuff. It’s weird.” She scrunches her lips to one side.

I round the front of the truck and hop in the driver’s side.

“Everything about this place is weird, Dolly,” I say, searching the console for the garage door opener.

“But they kept them like souvenirs. That’s really weird.” She scoffs.

Finding the remote, I open the garage door. Sunlight pours in, and we both cover our eyes.

“Sunlight,” Dolly whispers, gingerly taking her arm away from her face. As the beams light up the cabin, she leans forward toward the windshield, a large grin dancing on her lips.

It’s not only the warm rays of the sun lighting up the truck cabin, it’s our freedom.

“Where are we going to go?” she asks as I pull out of the garage, hitting the button to close the door behind us.

I turn onto the empty street lined with boarded up houses on both sides.

“Somewhere safe so we can look over everything.” I reach over and hold her hand. Smaller than mine, but just as mighty.

“Then what?” she asks, rolling down the window. Crisp spring air rushes into the cabin, and although it’s chilly, it’s fresh.

I drag in a deep breath. Renewed energy pumps through my veins.

“Then we make them pay.”

Fifteen

DOLLY

Ken’s still buried in the computer he took from the house when I come out of the bathroom with an oversized t-shirt covering me. There weren’t any pajamas in the piles of discarded clothes, but I had found this. It feels good to have clothes on again—real clothes.

The dresses with all the frills and lace, designed to entice the viewers and humiliate me into obedience, became awkward costumes. They covered my nakedness from the camera—at least for a few minutes—but displayed my failures.

This t-shirt comforts me, because I chose it.

“Find anything?” I ask Ken. My hair is still wet from my shower, and I wrap the short white towel around to squeeze more water out.

He clicks a button and leans back in the chair. The motel he’s brought us to has a queen-sized bed and a writing desk his size dwarfs while he’s sitting at it.

“A few things.” He swivels the chair around until his knees have trapped me between them. “You were in there a long time.”

I nod with a grin. “The water was so hot, I didn’t want to get out.”

He takes the towel from me and tosses it on the edge of the bed.

“Didn’t leave any for me then?” He chuckles and pulls me into his lap. His thighs are strong.

“I think you were a scary police officer,” I say, pressing my hands against his chest. He told me he was a cop, that he came to rescue me when Bossman stole him away. He promised me the rest of his squad would keep looking for us.

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