Page 41 of Dolls & Daggers
I shoot him a deadpan stare before remembering he can’t see shit behind my mask. Sardonically, I point to the lips of my mask and ask, “Do you have a straw?”
“Didn’t think about that.” Wren laughs. He abandons any pretense of being a good host for hisuninvited guest and pulls a kitchen chair halfway into the living room, flipping it around to sit backward.
“So, what are your questions?” I prop my forearm over my knee, letting the dagger dangle from my fingers, twirling it idly. Annoyance seeps from my pores at how friendly he’s acting.
Do not lose your cool, Dove. You’re a serial killer, for fuck’s sake. That takes time and patience—both of which you need to exercise right now.
“How do you do it?” He crosses his arms over the back of the chair and leans forward, curiosity dripping from his lips, interest tucked into every chiseled curve of his facial structure.
“Do what?”
“Kill. I want—” Wren stops, his expression shifting. It almost seems like he’s trying to rein in a sudden bout of anger. His fists clench, one leg beginning to bounce. “Ineedto learn.” I can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up, though the motion makes me wince—a painful reminder that the man across from me nearly crushed my throat two nights ago. “Who do you need to kill, So—” I cut myself off sharply, disguising the slip with a cough.
Fuck. I was just about to call him Songbird.
“Do you know Dove Carroway?” He squints, as if he can actually see behind my mask, searching for any hint of a lie. There’s no evidence of him catching myslip-up. The question comes too quickly, catching me mid-fake cough—which,again, hurts like fucking hell.
If he’d had a straw and I’d taken the drink, I’m sure I would have choked on it. Pun intended. It takes every ounce of self-restraint not to react. Why would he be asking about Dove… err… me?
“No? I do love what she writes about me, though.” My voice is light, flippant. “Why do you ask? Is she who you want to kill?” He says he needs to learn, and now he’s asking if I know myself? Surely he’s not stupid enough to try and kill little ol’me.
All over a bit of tongue action?
He doesn’t answer my question. “No one else has the inside scoop on you like she does. And the first night you came here, you said a little birdie told you about my obsession.”
“It’s a saying. I wasn’t being factual.” I stand and stretch, letting out a fake yawn as though he’s boring me. “I wouldn’t mind meeting her, though. She does seem togetme.”
Wren stands as well, approaching with heavy footsteps. “Dove writes about you for a reason,” he stresses, making emphatic motions with his hands, as if they’ll clue me in on whatever he’s thinking.
Obviously, I know the reason for doing what I do. The fact that he’s put it together so quickly is impressive and… adorable?
“I want tomurderthat reason.” His words land like a hammer.
I nearly swoon.
Wren looks dead serious—a man on a mission.
Mysongbirddoesn’t want to killme.He wants to killforme.
Sadly, a quick internet search will tell him the man he wishes dead is already long gone.
Freddy Patterson was my first kill when I was twenty. After he was found not guilty and people in town started making threats, saying I’d lied for two years about what he’d done—what he’dmademe do.
He’d been reinstated. Apologized to profusely. There had even been talk of a slander lawsuit, but my mother offered him hush money because she never believed me either.
Daddy issues.
Everyone said I just had daddy issues, and maybe I did—do.
But Freddy Patterson created the Baby Doll Killer. He liked dressing me up, buying me pretty things an adult woman would wear, and making me act younger than I was. He kept a room in his house just for me, filled with lace and frills and dolls—so many dolls that sometimes, at night, they scared me.
They would watch all the horrible things being done to me. Silent voyeurs to a nightmare where I wasthe beautiful, bright star—even when I no longer wanted to be.
Yet somehow, the dolls and the frills and the pretty pink persona stuck. A mask I’ll never shed because they became a piece of me—a vital part of who Dove Carroway is. A reminder of why I do what I do and who I do it for.
“You’re not a killer, Wrenley Campbell. You should leave that up to the professionals.” Tears prick my eyes, making the blackout contacts slide and itch. I look away, focusing on the hall—my only means of escape—and the fact that he’s standing in my way. All it would take is one contact slipping out, and he’d see my true identity staring him in the face.
Sniffing, I tuck my hair behind my ear. When I look back at him, he’s frozen, a frown stretching across his painstakingly beautiful face. The dim lighting from the kitchen and TV casts shifting shadows over the living room, but he isn’t looking at my mask.
