Page 81 of Dolls & Daggers
“I thought you felt sick? And yes, I needed to see what Wren is always going on about. And don’t deflect. What’s going on with Hunter?”
Bunny’s been tight-lipped about her and Hunter’s night in the bathroom. She won’t tell me what happened, no matter how hard I try to pry it out of her. I think it’s safe to assume they had sex, and now she’s terrified he’s going to hurt her.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Hunter’s response was just him being a typical guy. Now that he got what he wanted, he’s not interested anymore. But Idoknow better, and I know Hunter isn’t like that.
Maybe he really just doesn’t want to get sick.
“I think I’m going to throw up again. Call me when you’re back and tell me everythi—” The line goes dead just as the sound of yesterday’s regurgitated pizza cuts off her words.
I pop a French fry into my mouth and sip my strawberry milkshake as I head back to Robyn’s, mindful to park on the street a few houses down, but still within sight of the driveway.
I don’t have to wait long before her blue Camry pulls up, giving me just enough time to finish my food. Wren is crazy. The burger is nowhere near as good as Shake Shack.
Robyn carries in her groceries, and I let a few minutes pass, sipping on my shake while I pull her phone from my purse and switch it off silent mode. Once she’s closed her front door, I slip my dagger up the sleeve of my jean jacket and tuck my bag beneath the seat.
Hopefully, she hasn’t realized her phone is missing yet. Wren once told me she doesn’t use it often because she’d rather talk to people in person. I’m banking on that one snippet of information.
As I approach the house, the neighborhood feels eerily quiet. No hum of lawnmowers, no kids playing in the street. Strange for a weekend afternoon, but it works to my advantage.
My heart hammers as I step onto the driveway. There’s still time to turn back. I keep thinking that if I’m not meant to do this, Wren will call or text—some sign that the universe is intervening.
But my songbird is unusually quiet today. I know Hunter’s parents wanted help around the house, but even he managed to text Bunny back.
A gentle breeze sways the hanging flower pots, sending a thick floral scent wafting over me. I don’t have to knock because the second my foot hits the top step, the door swings open, and Robyn stands there, wide-eyed in confusion.
“Hi! I’m so sorry. I know this is probably weird!” I hold her phone out. Her eyes dip to it before narrowing with thinly veiled suspicion. “You dropped this at the store. I tried waving you down when you were leaving the parking lot, but you didn’t see me. I hope it wasn’t weird that I followed you home.”
I’m a walking red flag.
Anyone with an ounce of stranger danger would know that, no matter how old or trusting they are.
Robyn just blinks, and a second later, the monstrous visage twisting her features melts into fake gratitude. “Oh, goodness! Thank you! I can’t believe I didn’t realize it was missing.”
She takes the phone and widens the door as she steps aside. “Would you like to come in for a cup oftea?” She releases a breathy laugh, patting her ponytail. “I know, it’s probably weird to invite a stranger in, but my son moved away, and I could use some help bringing some things up from the basement.” She tosses up her hands and snort-laughs, rolling her eyes. “Yeesh, Robyn. You couldn’t sound more like a murderer if you tried.”
No wonder people like her. She oozes the same friendly assurance Freddy did, even making a lurid joke sound harmless.
I let out a giggle, smiling at her. She’s making this too damn easy.
But it reminds me a little too much of myself—how I lull my victims into a false sense of security before I strike. This woman has over a foot on me and can probably toss me over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
She’s not weak like a man. I’m not a vice for her. From what I know, she sexually abused Wren but wasn’t otherwise physically violent. My guard is up because I know what she is, but I’m not getting any “I’m going to lock you in the basement” vibes.
“I’d love to help. I know I’d want someone to do the same for my parents if I moved away.” I step inside and take in my surroundings.
The living room is small, with a single loveseat and an old recliner that’s seen better days. Brightly coloredcrochet animals lay in a pile on a small table next to an unfinished project. Photos of her and Wren clutter the walls, a montage of their life together.
Robyn leads me down a long hall, past the kitchen. I notice there are two cups on the table. “So, where did your son move to?”
“New York. He’s only been gone a few months but can’t wait to come home. Says it’s just awful there,” she lies, her voice thick with syrupy sympathy. “Have you ever been? I don’t think I’ve seen you around. We don’t get many visitors in our little town.”
“Oh, I love New York. It’s such a shame he doesn’t like it. I’m just passing through on my way to San Diego,” I say as we reach a wooden door at the end of the hall.
As she opens it, a thud sounds from beyond the kitchen area. My breath catches. Per the floor plan, I know the bedrooms are where the sound came from, and a sense of dread creeps along my bones.
Wren was sure she never touched anyone else. But what if he was wrong? What if, now that she doesn’t have him in her grasp any longer, she set her sights on someone else?
“Oh, that’s the dog. When I saw you coming up the driveway, I put him away. He’s not real friendly to strangers.” She ushers me through the doorway and down the rickety stairs.
