Page 41 of Little Puppet

I told them everything.

Every detail, from getting run off the road to how I escaped.

“Are you going to send officers?” I ask.

The detectives eye one another before the larger of the two sighs and sits back in his chair.

He has thin hair, thick-framed black glasses, and is skinny as a rail. His suit hangs off him like he got it from the rack and never had it tailored to fit him. It makes him look sickly. He runs his hand over his clean-shaven face as if he has a perfectly trimmed beard.

Cain and his tight-bearded face flutter through my mind, and I shudder in disgust as I close the door on the thought.

“Well, it’s a little more complicated than that, Ms. Wilcott.”

The way he says my name has my stomach tightening. It’s that feeling you get when something’s wrong, but you don’t know what it is. Instincts are rarely wrong, and I keep my hackles up as I pay close attention to mine.

“How is it complicated? I was held prisoner, pierced, molested. I escaped. I saw multiple bodies hanging from the ceiling. You’re telling me you don’t have the right to go out there and check it out?”

He sits forward, his thin hands running over his pen as he toys with it back and forth in his hands.

“This is a tiny town, Ms. Wilcott. That house you’re describing is abandoned. Has been for many years.”

I scoff, crossing my arms in defense. “Yet it has electricity running to it and smoke coming from the chimney,” I counter.

“We sent two units by the house shortly after you arrived, ma’am. The house is abandoned.”

His words make my ears ring so loudly that whatever he says afterward is barely audible.

How the hell could Cain have cleared out that quickly? There’s no way.

“And my car?” I squeak.

They look at one another. “No car was found, ma’am.”

“Did you even look?” I accuse, getting louder than I mean to.

I likely look like a fucking mental case, and the more I defend myself, the worse it gets.

His cheeks heat with an angry flush. “Of course, we looked. We do our due diligence here in Dunhaven, but your claims are unfounded.”

“Yeah, sure you do,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.

The way I hear it, all they do is look the other wayand hide like scared little bitches for one week out of the year.

“What’s that supposed to mean, young lady?” the other officer asks. A man in his late fifties or early sixties, with greying hair and beard, and a stomach that says he likes beer a bit too much.

“Nothing,” I reply, sighing. “Look, can you just get me home? Can I call my mom?”

The thinner of the two stands, heading for the door. “You know her address, so we can arrange to get you to her house, right?”

I nod. “I do.”

The other detective slides his pad across the table toward me, dropping a pen on top. “Here. Give us her phone number and address, Ms. Wilcott.”

I jot down all my mom’s information before the two detectives leave me sitting in the room, mind reeling and stomach in knots.

They made me feel as if I was the problem. It was like I was on trial when I was the one who escaped.

The skinny detective, who finally tells me his name is Detective Anderson, comes in an hour later with dinner.

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