Page 6 of The Phantom's Vice

“For what?” She sneers, placing her hands on her nightgown-laden hips.

“For obstructing an investigation. Now, either we can hold you down at the station while we search the entirety of your apartment or you can let us inside, let us ask our questions, and we’ll be out of your hair.” Jim gives her his no-nonsense expression, and Martha breaks.

“Fine,” she spits, releasing the door handle and waving us inside. “Ask whatever you want.”

If I thought the outside of Martha Gore’s house was creepy, I had no idea what horrors awaited me on the inside. Piles and piles of porcelain dolls litter every corner of the house. Some are sitting on chairs, and some are strewn haphazardly across the floor as if in a fit of rage.

Martha is in the process of clearing the couch of some life-sized horrors when Jim clears his throat. “That’s okay, ma’am. We won’t be here that long.”

At his tone, Martha sighs, dropping the dolls carelessly from her arms onto the floor and shuffling toward the kitchen. “Suit yourself. Anyone want a drink?”

Before Jim or I have the chance to answer, Martha returns with a massive bottle of gin. Flicking the cap onto the ground with all the others, she takes a swig directly from the mouth of the bottle. Jim and I give each other matching looks as she plops down on her stained armchair, taking another sip as if it’s water.

“So what d’you wanna know?” she asks, her words already starting to slur.

Jim clears his throat. “When’s the last time you were in contact with your son?”

Martha shrugs, seemingly more interested in inspecting her dirt-caked fingernails—at least I hope it's dirt—than answering our questions about her son. “A while.”

“How long is a while?”

She brings a finger up and taps her chin thoughtfully. “I can’t remember.”

Jim sighs, his jaw clenching—a clear sign he’s losing his patience. “Do you know what your son has been doing this past decade?”

Martha shakes her head, her eyes taking on aglassy, disinterested sheen again. “Couldn’t care less.”

Jim huffs again, deciding to redirect his line of questioning. “Do you remember the last time yousawyour son?”

As Martha takes up that same tapping motion again, my eyes wander around the room as Jim’s and Martha’s voices fade into the background. My eyes catch something gleaming on the mantel, and I cross the room in a daze.

“What are you doing? Put that down!” Martha’s screeching voice causes me to fumble the silver baby rattle, and it tinkles lightly as it crashes to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, crouching to pick it up. Martha is quicker, snatching the rattle out from under me and holding it greedily to her chest.

“You can’t just go around touching things that aren’t yours!” she spits, her eyes growing misty despite the snarl curling her lips. “Who do you think you are?”

My chest squeezes as I take in her posture. “Ms. Gore… did that rattle belong to your son?”

Her gaze clears for a beat, and she locks eyes with me, nodding her head once. “Yes,” she whispers, a tear tracking a line down her greasy cheek. “Yes, it did.”

Jim takes a step toward us, but I catch his eye and shake my head forcefully before turning back to Martha.

“Martha…” I begin, keeping my voice as soft as possible. “Do you know what happened to your son?”

She nods, her thin lips wobbling as more tears follow that first. “I didn’t want to—I mean, I didn’t know what I was doing…”

My stomach clenches as I take in that haunted gleam in her eyes.What did she do?

“I need to know what happened to him, Martha. I need your help. Please,” I whisper, my heart picking up speed. “You’re not in trouble, but Ineedto find him. He’s done some terrible, awful things, and we need to stop him. Do you understand?”

Martha nods, dropping her eyes to the ground.

“Will you help me?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.” She raises her eyes to mine, and I nearly gasp at the pain swirling in their depths. “I can’t help you because I haven’t seen my son in thirty years.” Her eyes pin me, and my stomach flips at the regret swirling in those cloudy pools.

“I sold him.”

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