Page 7 of The Dollmaker

He snapped his fingers. “Wake up, my sweet little doll.”

She stirred and her eyes fluttered, but the sedatives still lingered. She was confused as she stared up at him. “Where am I?” she asked. “Am I getting better?”

“You’re perfect.”

She blinked, focused, and looked at her hands, now tattooed white like her face. She tried to rub off the ink, and when it didn’t smudge, confusion turned to worry. She pushed off the couch, but her legs wobbled as her head no doubt spun.

“Not too fast, Destiny. It’ll take time for the drugs to clear.”

She staggered a step, crumpled to one knee. “What’s happening? What have you done to me?”

“I’ve made you perfect.”

She looked at her delicately painted fingernails, and as her gaze rose, she caught her reflection in a large mirror he kept in his studio. She froze, shocked. Tears mingled with disbelief. “What have you done?”

He didn’t like the judgment in her voice. A perfect doll didn’t judge. It didn’t get angry. Look at you with disgust and horror. A perfect doll was still. Accepting.

“Shh,” he said. He put his camera aside and reached for a drink cup with a straw. “It’s okay. You’re fine.”

With a trembling hand, she touched the wig and then her bow lips. “I look like a freak!”

Worry crowded out his happiness. “Don’t say that. I’ve made you perfect.”

“I’m a monster!” Her hands trembled. Red-rimmed eyes spilled more tears.

He hated to see a woman cry. They used their tears to make him feel bad and to manipulate him. “Don’t be ungrateful.”

Shaking her head, she raised her hand to her head and felt the wig. “My hair?”

When she tried to tug the wig free, he brushed her hand away. “Don’t do that,” he said, trying to remain calm. “It took me a lot of time to get it right.”

“It’s not my hair. Not my skin.” She forced herself to stagger toward the mirror. Her face inches from her reflection, she gawked.

“You must be pleased with the work. You’re one of my best creations.”

She rubbed the round blush on her checks and the dots of freckles. Worry ignited in her eyes. “What have you done to me?”

“I’ve made you beautiful.” He snapped more pictures, enthralled by this instant of discovery. She might be shocked now, but she would be beholden to him when she realized the beauty of his work.

Her fingers curled into fists. “You’ve ruined me.”

“I’ve made you a living doll.”

With a yank, she pulled the wig off and smoothed her hand over her bald head. She screamed. The shrill sound cut through his head, shattering his calm.

She glanced wildly around at the large four-poster bed, the rocking chair, and the small table with the tea set. When she saw the door, she stumbled toward it. Her knees wobbled as her skirt skimmed the top of her shins.

She yanked on the knob, and realizing it was locked, screamed, “Let me go!”

“No one can hear you,” he gently said.

She pounded her fist on the hard wood, crying for help and mercy. “This is a nightmare!”

“You need to calm down. It’ll be all right. I have taken such good care of you.”

Her eyes blazed with hate and disgust. “You fucking freak!”

Her harsh words belied the angelic features. “That’s not necessary.”

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