Page 64 of Sinful Justice

“Yeah.” Clearing my throat, I make my way past the little girl and stop by Minka’s side. I don’t intend to come so close, and I sure as shit don’t intend to touch, but my shoulder brushes against hers and my lungs covet her perfume. Her soap. Her entire fucking being. “Carlene Thoma gave us the doll, but she did it in such a way as to not alert Garry Thoma. She led us to the girls’ shared bedroom, purposely seeking privacy away from the other occupants of the home, and she handed us the doll, but not before placing a folded piece of paper inside the dress.”

Stunned, Minka’s beautiful eyes come to mine. “A piece of paper?”

Nodding, I look back down at the still untouched doll. “Carlene Thoma held the paper in her apron pocket for the majority of our visit. I noticed her fidgeting, but didn’t understand the significance until she placed it inside the dress and handed us the doll.” Swallowing, I look back up. “When Garry barged in, she mentioned she thought giving the police something that smelled of Louisa would help us solve our case.”

“Garry didn’t know she placed the letter in the dress?” Aubree stops on my left and photographs the bag. The doll. The lump in her dress. “She was sneaky. What does the paper say?”

“We don’t know. We haven’t opened it.”

“Hence,” Minka murmurs, “bringing it here and having it on record.” She looks to me, her hands an easy twelve inches from the bag. “May I?”

“Yeah.” I drag my bottom lip between my teeth and drop my hands into my pockets. Because if I don’t, I’m going to touch—the doll, or the woman. Both will get me in trouble.

“Opening the bag,” Minka continues to speak professionally. Detached. “Instantly, I’m met with the scent of tobacco and…” She brings the bag closer and takes a deeper whiff. “I don’t know what that is. Aftershave, maybe?”

She holds the bag open, offering it first to Aubree to smell, then to me.

“Cologne,” Aubree answers. “Cheaper stuff. There are spicy tones. And maybe citrus.”

“Let the record show a definite scent worth investigating. We can call in labs from the seventh floor and have them try to figure it out. Once we have that, we can get brands and outlets. Trace it back to a purchaser, and we’re a little closer to knowing who maybe spent more time with Louisa.”

“Doesn’t prove much,” Aubree cuts in. “Even if it’s her dad’s aftershave, they share a house. Her things are going to smell like him.”

“We’re building a wall,” Minka quietly murmurs. “One brick does not make a wall, but several of them stacked together do. Extracting the contents.”

She reaches into the bag and grabs the soft-headed doll in one hand. The sleeve of her coat rides up with her movement, again revealing the bruise that caught my eye across the room, and because I’m closer now, I see the finger marks. The way someone gabbed her.

Someone hurt her.

In this instant, though I’m on the job and supposed to be searching for justice for a little girl, my temper flares for the woman beside me. The bruising on her wrist, the way she’s always standoffish. Her cold reception almost always, and her refusal to ever show weakness or emotion.

She already has someone. And that motherfucker hurt her.

“Focus, Detective.” Glancing across and up at me, Minka’s eyes flicker between mine. “Whatever’s got your adrenaline firing, slow it down. You’re gonna make me muck up this case.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” I grit out.

Stepping back from the table, I force space between me and this woman who, as it turns out, may have already been claimed by someone else. Worse, that someone else is rough. He hurts her. He’s the reason she chooses not to trust now.

“Fuck.” Spinning away, I make my way to Louisa’s body laid out on the cold table and ignore the curious gaze Fletch sends my way.

“Stains on the doll,” Minka goes back to work. Dry tone and matter-of-fact statements. “Standard stains that appear to be from sweat, saliva, dirt; typical marks on a child’s toy that hasn’t been washed in a few weeks. The doll’s feet show a pattern that indicate shoes. On the left foot, a length of yarn stretches along the leg, implying a ballerina-type slipper and tie. The yarn is missing on the right foot. The stitching in the crotch has torn, but aftermarket stitching, presumably by the mother or another caregiver, has repaired the split. I’m now going to remove the dress.”

Gently flipping the doll, Minka lays it on its stomach and carefully parts the Velcro closure, while on my side of the room, I look down at the little girl’s body.

Her face and limbs are stiff, rigor mortis taking over and blood now following gravity, settling in her back and the backs of her thighs.

“Dress has been carefully removed,” Minka continues. “Doctor Emeri assists. No tearing, though the fabric appears to be faded and a few years old. She was a well-loved doll.”

“There.” Aubree’s alerting tone brings my gaze up. “The paper.”

“A folded sheet of paper has fallen from the dress,” Minka speaks for the record. “Paper, presumably from a notebook. Torn edges, folded corners.”

Setting the doll and dress aside, Minka takes the paper in her gloved fingers and gently begins to unfold. “Paper is not falling apart. Not tearing. It’s not very old, however, it’s been folded three, four,fivetimes to create a compacted shape, approximately one and a half inches long by one inch wide. When unfolded,” she studies one side of the paper, and on the back is scribble I can’t decipher from this far away, “the sheet is roughly six inches wide, eight inches tall.”

Finally, she flips the paper—and hunches in on herself.

“A diary entry,” Minka’s voice breaks. “Appearing to be from Louisa herself. The handwriting is consistent with a ten-year-old’s. Messy but legible.Dear Diary,” she reads. “I hate it when he comes in here. I hate it when he sits across from me at the dinner table.

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