Page 40 of Little Puppet

I’d been lucky; he seemed to have some weakness for me, and because of it, he had unhooked me.

There would’ve been no escaping without it.

I can’t stop seeing the bones hanging in that room in my head. Over and over, they dangle on their strings, and I can’t make the thoughts cease.

Tears flow down my face, and there’s nothing I can do to make them stop.

When I finally find the police station, I zip into a space.

Shutting off the truck, I try to gain my composure. It’s the first time I’ve realized I’m in a bra and panties with no shoes. The hoops running my arms, back, and shoulders look like I had a run-in with someone out of a horror film.

But I guess I did.

The town looks more alive now.

People are walking the streets, and I gain more than a few looks as I get out of the truck and walk toward the police station entrance.

“Ma’am, are you alright?” a female officer from behind the desk asks me as I reach the middle of the room and collapse to my knees, relieved to be in civilization again.

I never thought I’d see the outside world again.

Not if Cain had his way.

“Help,” I beg, unable to lift back onto my feet.

“Steve, help me, would you?” the officer shouts, hefting me the best she can.

A broad man comes rushing over, keys rattling on his belt as he helps her get me into a chair next to a desk in an office down a cold, bright hallway.

“Are you alright? Steve, get her a blanket.” She rubs my arms before her hands bump over my piercings, and her eyes go wide. “What the hell.”

“You don’t have long. He’s unconscious, but he won’t stay that way. You need to hurry. There are bones,” I’m rambling, but there’s so much to say and so little time.

“Bones where? You’re not making any sense.”

A blanket wraps around me, and hot coffee is placed before me.

I grab it, warming my hands.

“Follow this road until you hit Panther Trail. There’s an abandoned house. A man has been holding me there. Cain Moldova. He’s a killer. An awful man. He’s been killing for years,” I spew out rapidly.

“Are there more like you that didn’t escape?” the woman asks me.

I shake my head. “No. It was just me. He says he only hunts once a year.”

The male officer who had been writing on a pad stops. He puts the pad and pen back in his shirt pocket. “What’s your name, sweetheart? So we can make sure we get you where you belong safely.”

“Grace. Grace Wilcott,” I answer, feeling a giddy rush thrum through me as coffee heats my body.

I’m safe.

I’m alive.

The first chance I get, I’m going home, too.

Fuck this place.

I’m dressedin an orange jumpsuit, looking one step away from handcuffs, but there’s food in my belly, and I’m warm. Two detectives are sitting across from me. One is eyeing me as if he doesn’t believe a word coming out of my mouth, and the other is dutifully taking notes.

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