Page 23 of Pretty Stolen Dolls

“Mrs. Stevens,” I start as I loosen the grip on the neatly folded image in my hand, and thrust it her way, “does this man look familiar to you?”

Taking it from me, she carefully opens it and her eyes narrow as she inspects it. For a moment, I want to say recognition flickers in her eyes, but after a long minute, she shakes her head and hands it back.

“I don’t know this man.”

I make the mistake of glancing down at the image and his soulless dark eyes glare at me in warning. I’m coming for you, pretty little doll.A shudder passes through me and I swallow down my terror. “Can you tell me about the last time you saw your daughter?”

“We argued,” she chokes, losing her composure. I hand her a tissue and urge her on.

She shakes her head and shrugs. “It was nothing really, just about her taking money from my purse without asking.”

Sniffling, she swipes the tissue across her nose, catches a fallen drip, and smiles over at me, embarrassed.

“She just started her period. Didn’t tell me about it though and took money to buy tampons. I’m an understanding momma. I know what it’s like. If she just told me in the first place…” she sobs, sucking in a gulp of air. “I’m a woman and girls need their mommas for these things. I would have taken her to get them.” She stares at me with red, teary eyes, waiting for…what? Understanding?

I could offer none.

My cell is freezing at night and I’m regretting butchering Benny’s doll. My meltdown achieved nothing except leaving me half-naked and embarrassed.

And cold.

So cold.

I hate being exposed in only my bra and panties. Spiders keep skittering across the dusty floor and finding their way to my legs to bite me, leaving my skin hypersensitive and itchy.

I want to call out to Macy, but he doesn’t let us talk when he’s here. When he goes off for a day or two, we talk. Though, she doesn’t say much anymore and I have to coax conversation from her. I’m not sure how long we’ve been here exactly. Weeks? Months? It’s hard to tell.

My stomach cramps and I rub my hand over the chilled flesh to ease it. It’s been doing that a lot over the past few days. What if I’m dying? Flicking my gaze to the makeshift toilet in the corner of my cell, I cringe. I hate using that filthy thing and it hurts my legs to hover over it.

I lift from the bed and start to walk over to the toilet when a dampness coats between my legs. My hand drops to touch the wetness and my eyes grow wide when it comes back smeared in blood.

Looking down, I find my white panties soaked in a cerise patch.

I’m bleeding.

My chest quakes and a silent sob aches my ribcage.

“What is that?”

A gasp escapes my lips at his voice. I thought he would be sleeping on the cot he has beside his work table just outside our cells, but he’s not. He’s peering in at me, staring at the blood staining my panties and inner thighs.

“My period,” I mutter, afraid and humiliated. The door lock clanks and then swings open. Highlighted by a lamplight glowing by his cot, his muscles tense and sweat sticks to his skin like a fine mist. He’s beautiful and it’s haunting.

I hate him.

As he takes a step toward me, I take a step back, and his eyes narrow at my retreating movements.

My hands attempt to hide my panty-covered private parts, trying to conceal my shame from him.

He already takes enough from me; my dignity is still mine.

With a grumble, he swipes at me, effortlessly knocking my hands away. His frame crowds my smaller one and then his hands brush over my hips, making my body tremble and erupt in goosebumps.

Don’t touch me,don’t touch me,don’t touch me, I scream over and over in my head, but terror keeps me mute.

Tucking his thumbs into the waist of my panties, he drags them down my legs. “Step out,” he commands, and I swallow the lump forming in my throat.

He’s on one knee in front of me, his breath, hot and intrusive, on my lower stomach.

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