Page 39 of Little Puppet

“Now you see me, don’t you, Grace darling? This is Cain Mordova, doctor and serial killer. This is who I am, puppet.”

Her eyes roam over where the girls’ bones are strung up like full skeleton puppets from my ceiling. All nine of my past victims. It had taken time and a lot of effort to have them preserved and beautifully hung in my time capsule of death.

“Do you see why I know you’ll run, Grace? Do you understand now?”

She’s shivering against me, sobbing as she looks her fill.

When she sidesteps me and rushes into my bedroom, I know I’ll have to reconnect her strings tonight.

My puppet broke the rules and is now a liability again.

I take one look backward as I switch off the light and shut the door behind me, heading towards my bedroom.

I’ve been grappling with how badly I want to keep her, but now I know self-preservation will allow me to do what I need and keep me on my path.

“Take your shirt off, puppet. Master needs to string you up again,” I say as I enter the bedroom.

When I step in, however, something crashes over the back of my head, and I slump to the ground.

Grace steps over me, clocking me once more, this time harder.

As my vision fades and I fight to hang on, I realize I was right about her.

She’s going to unravel me.

Chapter 12

Standing over Cain, my hands shake, lamp in hand.

For a moment, I freeze. Looking down at him, I realize he’s still breathing.

I haven’t killed him.

Thank God.

I can’t be him. What I saw in that room shocked me. I don’t know how many of his skeletal puppets are hanging from the ceiling in there, but they’re someone’s family. People are missing them, all while they hang there like bones in an anatomy lab.

All because they crossed paths with this psycho before Christmas.

It’s a few minutes before I drop the lamp and head for the stairs. I shove past the closed door where the women are dangling like good little puppets for him.

It takes me far too long to find his truck keys, and I continue to listen and watch for him.

There had been no time to bind him up, no way to ensure I had time to do what I needed to get free. When I finally found them hidden beneath a fruit bowl in the kitchen, I made for the door, hurrying like my life depended on it.

Because it does.

Cranking up his truck, I quickly lock the doors, back up, and turn toward the road. The back tires spin out, digging into the yard as I make my hasty exit, turning back toward the way I came.

The truck is a manual, but lucky for me and unlucky for my kidnapper, my uncle taught all of us kids in the family to drive a stick. Because of his love for imported cars, he said everyone needed to know if they were ever in a pinch and required the skill.

I’ve never been so thankful for his wisdom as I am right now as I shift into third and continue toward town.

I don’t have any of my things or phone, and I need help. I have no map, GPS, or way to get to my mom’s house.

I need to find the police station.

Even though I know I have his only vehicle—or what I hope is his only vehicle—I keep my eyes flicking between the road and the rearview mirror.

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