Page 73 of Pretty Stolen Dolls

“Yeah, they’re new, but no one mans them. They upload onto the cloud.” He shrugs.

So, he didn’t think to go look to see who parked the truck here? I shake off my irritation and push him toward the entrance of the motel. “We’re going to need to see them.”

I leave Dillon to call it in and follow the willowy guy inside. It stinks of sweat and cum and if the tissues overflowing his trashcan are any indication, I’d say he uses this office as he would his bedroom.

“You’re pretty for a cop.”

Pretty little doll.

“I’m a detective.”

“How old are you?”

Is he serious? I look like shit from crying and I’m here investigating a truck bloodied up with a woman’s life splayed all over it.

“Just show me the feed, Tim,” I grit out.

He pats the chair next to him.

“I’ll stand.”

The time stamp flickers in the corner of the screen and then the truck appears, pulling in.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

The truck stops and a figure gets out and walks around in direct view of the cameras. He smirks up at it, like he knows I’ll be watching and holds something up in his hand.

“It’s a keycard,” Tim chimes.

I can see that, Tim.Like I need him narrating.Dipshit.

He moves across the lot and uses the key on one of the doors.

“Find out who’s name that room is in,” I bark at Tim, who scurries to the front desk.

I use the computer mouse to fast forward until he comes back out of the room, two hours and twelve minutes later.

“Cindy Harris,” Tim blurts.

Bo’s co-worker.

I watch the powerful walk of the man who kept me locked away for all those years—the man who butchered my parents. He holds up the keycard again and slips it on top of the wheel of the truck. Darting from the office and through the reception out the doors, I run over to the truck and search the tire. Just like in the video, it brushes against my fingers right where he left it.

“What’s that?” Dillon asks with a firm nod. I hold the key up and point to room five with an outstretched arm.

He holds his hand out for me to give him the key and I hesitate before dropping it in his palm. I don’t know if I can cope with what’s behind that door. My mom’s body strung up like she was a fucking doll flashes in my mind and I have to hold back the sob tearing up my chest for escape.

Dillon’s heavy boots pound against the ground with my timid steps following behind. Holstering his gun, he warns me to stay back and bangs his knuckles on the door with heavy raps. “This is the police. If anyone is inside, I need you to come out slowly with your hands raised high in the air where we can see them.”

Silence.

Pushing the key card into the lock, the handle gives and he gently pushes it open with his gun aimed and ready. “Jesus fuck!” he grits out, lowering his weapon and shaking his head. I come up behind him and look inside. Written on the wall in blood above the bed where a slain female lays naked are words that haunt me.

Miss Polly had a dolly who was sick, sick, sick.

---